The Alpha Ultimatum
by MorganEnjoysFanfiction
Summary: They thought they were safe. That is, until the Beta strategy came into play. Now Derek and Stiles must run from the Argents as well as the CIA. Sequel to The Wolf Legacy. Cross posted on AO3.
1. Prologue

**AN: **I do not own Teen Wolf or the Bourne movies. The only thing I own is The Wolf Legacy and David Cross.

* * *

David Cross had been bitten by a werewolf when he was eleven years old. His parents, addicted to heroin among other things, barely noticed they had a son, and especially didn't notice when he snuck out in the middle of the night. David had stolen a Swiss army knife from a Walmart once and now kept it on him at all times. He liked to stab tree stumps and carve sticks, pretending they were his parents. He would carve out deep gashes in the dead wood and mutter under his breath, "That'll teach you to ignore me. Stupid, stupid, stupid..." But usually he was silent.

One night, at the height of an August heat wave just before school, David wandered off deeper into the woods than he'd ever gone before. The forest might have intimidated some, especially with the local legends of dangerous wolves, but he didn't take any of the legends seriously. He found a particularly desolate spot with a fallen tree across a swamp. He crossed the swamp with a few quick leaps across the dead pine tree, hacking at branches as he went. The Swiss army knife was getting duller the more he used it, but with each stab and slash he felt better.

A desperate howl sounded out in the distance. David felt a split second of uncertainly, recalling the legends, but he continued trudging on. Vaguely he thought about sharpening his knife when he got home.

Through the mist between the trees, he saw a dark shape. It was huge and hulking. A deep, rippling growl echoing in the swamp. David didn't think it was real at first. The white wolf stepped out between the trees, blood covering his muzzle. He approached it slowly, a hand outstretched as if to pet it.

It caught his whole arm in its jaws and shook him around like a rag doll. David didn't make a sound even when he flew twenty feet into a tree except for a small grunt of pain. His arm dangled uselessly at his side and blood dripping down his wrist. The wolf barked and snarled at him. It jumped towards him, slobber mixed with more blood dripping down the sides of its fangs. David reached into his pocket with his good arm and took his knife out again, extending the blade with difficulty one-handed. It looked miniscule next to the wolf right in front of him.

The wolf leaped for him again just as he thrust his arm up. The blade pushed through rough hair and soft flesh into a bubble of blood. Its heart burst over the tip and the wolf collapsed on top of him. David grunted again and tried to push the huge wolf off of him. Soon he found it was easier, that the wolf was lighter. That was because it wasn't a wolf anymore. He rolled the old, thin woman off of him and stood shakily, clutching his bleeding arm to his chest.

The woman was barely breathing. Blood still burbled pathetically from the wound in her chest. She stared at David with wide and horrified eyes. "I'm sorry," she gasped faintly. The red in her eyes was fading like the blood flowing from her chest. "A child... I never meant..." Soon she fell silent. Her chest stopped moving and the bleeding stopped.

David stared down at her without pity. He flexed his mangled arm, which had already stopped bleeding. New pink skin stretched over it and he felt no pain, only a lot of itching. Walking back to the swamp, David looked into the water and saw his own blue eyes were glowing red.

For the first time in a very long time, he smiled.

* * *

When his parents did pay attention to him in the next coming months, they noticed something was off, but in their drug induced stupor they couldn't have said what. He had always been a strange child, never crying or laughing but full of self awareness and control. Their son had always kept to himself, locking himself in his bedroom and never making a sound.

On his first full moon, David found a length of chain at the local dump and tied himself to a tree in the middle of the woods. The moon's thrall pulled at him and he roared and howled in the night, but never fully lost control. After only a few months, David could sit at home and do his homework on the full moon without tying himself up. He kept himself anchored with thoughts of power, control, and one day being the most powerful man in the world. That was his greatest ambition. He never considered himself an animal and he refused to relinquish control to the beast within. Only on the full moons would he allow himself to change into his wolf form and roam the Ohio woods around his house.

In his spare time he read everything he could about werewolves. They lived near a large university, and he soon became a regular sight in the university library. David never asked for help and refused when he was asked. After finding some dusty, half molded books from a hidden stack on the fourth floor, he learned that the red eyes made him an alpha wolf, the most powerful of the kind. The information didn't come as a surprise to him.

The next summer vacation, his wolf was tested for the first time when a small pack moved into the woods around his house. David was out again, using his senses to pinpoint life in the trees. He liked to test himself on his walks and find birds and track squirrels.

Suddenly he smelled people, new people in his woods. They stank like feral musk and wood, not unlike the old wolf he'd met a year before. He crept up on them slowly, finding them abruptly in a clearing near the swamp where he'd originally been bitten. They were older than him but still not quite adults: teenagers or college aged at most. The girls had long hair and wore flowing, flowery dresses. They danced around the boys to invisible music, waving their arms gently around their heads. Their little campsite was surrounded on three sides by looming rocks about thirty feet high. David crouched down above them on top of the rocks, hiding behind some bushes.

"When's Graham coming back?" One of the girls asked.

One of the boys shrugged. He took a drag on his hand rolled cigarette. "Once he gets a deer, we'll eat, then we'll get out of here." The boy rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. "I have a weird feeling about these woods."

"I know what you mean," the other girl nodded. She stopped dancing to sit on a tree stump. "It's creepy here. I just... sense something's off."

David decided to reveal himself. He leaped down from his perch above and landed gracefully on his feet in their midst. The thirty foot drop was nothing to him. The pack backed away. One of the boys let out a high pitched whine as he tripped over a tree root, and the girls laughed nervously.

"What are you doing here?" David crossed his arms and glared at the group.

One of the girls stepped closer and sank to her knees in front of him. "Are you lost?" She asked him kindly.

He reached out, grabbed her by the throat, and squeezed viciously until she whimpered in pain. Her eyes turned golden yellow and when he threw her away, she rolled onto her back with a yelp. The others backed away even further, totally shocked and afraid. David stepped forward. He could feel his fangs pricking his lower lips and his eyes turning red. The wolf inside him craved the submission of these wolves, but he controlled the instincts perfectly. One of the boys growled and stepped forward as well. His fingernails had extended into claws and his eyes were the same gold as the girl's.

"What," David growled again, "are you doing here?" He only came up the the shoulder of the young man, but he could tell the other was the more intimidated.

"There's no way you can be an alpha, kid," the man rumbled. He gripped David's t-shirt tightly. "I don't care how red your eyes are. You'll submit to me."

David growled and grabbed the man's shirt in turn. He spun and threw him backwards. The boy bounced off the rock face and landed face down. The pack winced at the sick thud of a head smashing into rock, but David didn't notice. He crossed his arms again and stared coldly at the other wolves.

"I think I've made my intentions clear." David's voice was colder than his stare. "Either you leave this area, or I make you leave. I will kill you all."

They scattered like so many leaves in the wind. The wounded boy groaned against the rocks and tried to scramble up to follow them, but he fell back with a cry. David crouched down next to him, considering the damage he'd done. Blood was slowly coagulating around the back of his head; some had stuck, with bits of hair and bone, to the rocks among the moss.

"W-what do you want?" The older boy wheezed pitifully.

"For you to submit to me," David whispered. He leaned in closer and growled softly. The man whined and lifted his throat with difficulty, baring it to David. His eyes were wide and fearful.

"Interesting." David sat back on his heels thoughtfully. Before he could stand, David lashed out and ripped open the man's throat with the claws that had sprouted from his fingertips. With a gurgle and a sigh the boy died.

The wolf inside grumbled contentedly at the sight of the blood, but David's face never changed beyond impassivity. He sat there for a while, still squatting on his heels and thinking, when he caught the sound of someone walking closer. It sounded as though they were dragging something heavy behind them.

"Hey guys, what's with all the blood? I killed this deer for you and you already found dinner? Come on." A laughing voice called out from behind a grove of trees. David stood and crossed his arms again, waiting. Soon another man, older than the rest of the group, came into view dragging a deer carcass behind him. He stopped in shock at the sight of David standing over the dead body of one of his group.

"Kid, what – what's going on?" He dropped the deer and started towards him, but stopped when David growled low in his throat. This must be Graham.

David said softly, "I'm in charge of these woods. You need to leave."

The man huffed and growled, his fangs dropping through in his mouth. His eyes changed into a sick red reminiscent of David's own. "You murdered one of my pack?" He stepped closer, his growling much louder.

David didn't flinch when the other man roared at him in anger. "You need to leave," he repeated calmly.

The man's skin rippled as he fell to all fours, changing into a great reddish brown wolf. He snarled and charged at David, who evaded him easily with a spin. He leaned back towards the rocks and found a big one that fit into his hands. The wolf wanted to come out and attack, but David controlled it again. He wanted to do this as a human being.

When the wolf charged at him again, David didn't hesitate in bringing the rock down on his head with brutal superhuman force. The wolf shook its head, dizzy from the blow. Before it could recuperate David had a clawed hand latched onto its throat. He tore savagely until it sprayed blood all over his face. David threw the disgusting chunks of meat onto the ground and watched in idle fascination as the other man turned back into a human.

"Y-you're just a kid," he choked out.

David shrugged, as much as he could, and continued attacking the defenseless wolf. In the end he had shredded the body so badly it was unrecognizable. He was twelve years old, but he wasn't a child anymore.

* * *

Joining the Army seemed like the only reasonable thing to do after he got his degrees in history and international relations. David had realized after that day in the woods that being a werewolf did not guarantee him power over the people in his life. Being an alpha made him the most powerful sort of werewolf, certainly, but over human beings he was nothing more than a thin, short man going prematurely gray. By the time he was promoted to Captain, he'd caught the attention of some very important people in Washington for his work in military intelligence. They had taken him out of the Army and set him to work in the CIA, coordinating missions and earning himself the long standing nickname the Puppeteer. He was an unnamed shadow in the halls of the CIA. Not even his wife or sor knew what he really did.

They didn't know he was a werewolf either, but that was easy to hide. Lots of people liked rare meat.

He met Peter Hale in the summer of 1999. During a business trip to the west coast, he found a quiet pub and ordered a beer. When Peter walked in, David stiffened and turned around. It had been a long time since he'd run into one of his own. Peter angrily ordered a drink and sat at the other end of the bar. He finished it in a heartbeat and motioned for another one from the bartender.

"You won't get drunk that way," David murmured quietly. He took a slow drink of his own beer.

Peter looked at him darkly. "What would you know?"

David turned slowly to look back at him. He allowed his eyes to flash the briefest haze of red and he sneered at Peter's obvious startled reaction. "I know enough."

The tense silence filled the space between them. David ate his food nonchalantly, aware of Peter's eyes on his every move. Soon Peter had slid down to his end of the bar, clutching a third drink. "I don't know if you're aware," Peter muttered, "but there is a large and influential pack in this area. The Hales. I'm Peter, by the way. You should leave, or offer your respects to the alpha." David could hear the sneer on the word "alpha."

"I have no intention of doing anything of the sort," David scoffed.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" Peter asked softly.

"That's not particularly important." David took another drink. "Rest assured I have no intentions to hurt you or your pack. I'm a bit busy working for the government." He wasn't sure why he let that slip.

Peter looked around covertly. "What if... what if I wanted you to?"

At that David looked at him. A dark, predatory smile crossed Peter's face. "I could use a new pack," Peter whispered. "The family's getting a bit old."

David snorted quietly. "I don't need a pack. Least of all a cowardly beta."

"You're interested in the idea, though." Peter's grin turned sly. "What exactly do you do for the government?"

David felt his mouth move. "I kill people."

Peter nudged his shoulder with his own and motioned to an empty corner booth away from the bar. David finished his beer and allowed his wolf to follow. In the darkness of the pub, Peter laid out an interesting proposal. He talked about his nieces and nephews and a wild, unpredictable group of hunters who lived nearby.

The pub slowly emptied around them. Soon they were the only two people left besides a few old regulars at the bar. "You're an interesting beta, Peter," David mused. They had settled back with a few cigarettes. "Most wolves would just kill their alphas and be done with it."

"I think we can... benefit from each other," Peter replied smoothly. "I want power. I want a different life. You can give it to me."

David stood and dropped a few bills on the table. He gazed at Peter with an inscrutable expression. "I will be in touch after speaking to my... superiors. Don't do anything stupid." Peter's wolfish grin followed him out of the pub.

A few weeks later, in a small hotel conference room outside of Washington, D.C., David raised the idea with the core group of people in charge of running the United States. He posed the idea of master assassins, capable of super speed, super strength, immune to diseases and bullet wounds. The CIA loved the idea and ordered him to begin the Alpha strategy, as it was codenamed. He didn't mention he was one of these creatures they wanted to control.

The Hale initiative didn't quite go as planned, but David was pleased with the prize that was Derek Hale. He was young and malleable, easily swayed after being rescued by a group of soldiers from Kate Argent's band of hunters. David would have preferred the younger human twins of course, and Laura – from what he'd seen, had clearly been the next alpha in line in the pack – but Derek proved to be an excellent soldier, good at following orders without hesitation. His first kill was messy, but then again, that made it harder to pinpoint back to a human.

After a year or two invested in the Alpha strategy, seeing how good Derek got at his job, how much Peter enjoyed his new role as Alpha 2, David realized his ambitions for power still lingered. His wolf still thirsted for control. He gripped the reins on two dangerous werewolves, but it wasn't enough.

Peter caught up with him in a divey diner outside of Washington and told him about a new group of hunters recently relocated to the area. David smiled when he learned they were called Argent: Kate's brother and sister in law. They were small, recuperating from Kate's death and the Hale fire in California, but they still commanded respect in the supernatural community.

"You really should have a pack of your own," Peter chided him mildly over steak and eggs. "It will keep you powerful as an alpha."

"I seem to be handling myself just fine." David took a bite of toast. "And you?"

"Oh," Peter smiled, "I have plans to make a pack of my own. You'll be needing an Alpha 3 soon, right?"

"Eventually. Are you saying I should turn whoever I find first?" David's tone was wry.

"No. I think you should turn the Argents. Call it a Beta strategy."

David paused, another piece of toast halfway to his mouth. "What's the logic in risking myself to turn the best werewolf hunters on the planet?"

"Power." Peter understood his alpha very well.

David chewed his food slowly. "It's an interesting idea," he mused. "But I don't think I'll be turning them. They're more valuable human."

Peter shrugged. "Whatever floats your boat, man."

* * *

The Argents prided themselves on their skill, but David was disappointed at how easy it had been to disarm them. Christopher and his wife, Victoria, were tied with their backs together in the middle of their kitchen. David had laid all of their household weapons and wolfsbane collections on the kitchen island in front of them.

"I'm not going to kill you," he told them softly. Chris strained in vain against the bonds while his wife looked on in badly concealed fear. "I'm not going to bite you, either. I just want you to submit."

Chris strained harder. The veins in his forehead popped brightly out of his forehead. David chuckled and kneeled at his side. "You don't really have a choice in the matter, Christopher. I make the decisions. I make the rules." He bared his fangs. "I don't want to take away your methods, or your weapons, or your way of life."

The gag around Chris's mouth slipped. "I kill rabid dogs like you for a living," he snarled. "I don't submit, I'm human."

David chuckled darkly and wrapped his hand around Victoria's throat. She wheezed as he cut off her air. "I think," he murmured into Chris's ear, "you will. In the end."

Chris groaned as he watched his wife struggle for breath. Victoria's eyes started to roll back in her head before he shouted, "Stop! Stop it! Wh-what do you want?"

The werewolf let Victoria go and watched her cough. "I want you to work for me. That's all."

"And in return?"

"I let you both live."

He spent the night there, alternating between Chris and Victoria, coaxing them, torturing them, until they were bloody messes begging for release. The next day he forced them into a car and drove to the CIA, where they were debriefed in secret and then sent on their way. The Argents and their band of hunters thought about disbanding and running away frequently, but David would show up at every turn. He'd come unannounced for dinner, or knock on the door in the middle of the night to check on them. Even when they were across the country doing a job or visiting Kate's grave, they could never escape his presence.

After ten years under his thumb, they finally relented. They accepted him as an ugly facet in their life that would never go away. When Victoria hung up the phone that day at the end of December, she turned to her husband, who sighed into his hand. "What does he want?" He mumbled.

"To get to Langley." Already she was shrugging on her coat. "Come on, Chris."

"I hate this," he muttered as he threw on his own. "I cannot fucking do this anymore, Victoria."

"I know." She patted his cheek awkwardly, and lead him out the door.


	2. The Bite

**AN: **I do not own Teen Wolf or the Bourne movies.

* * *

The small house sat at the end of a cul de sac somewhere in western Massachusetts. The man in the house kept looking over his shoulder and out the windows, as though he could feel the pinpricks of eyeballs on the back of his neck. Derek hid low beneath the window outside, just avoiding being seen. He cursed his curiosity and sat back against the house wall. This was only his second job with the CIA. He still struggled with the hows, the whys, the what ifs of his job, the moral ambiguity, and the abject terror he subjected people to.

There was a crackle on the radio in his pocket. Derek clicked the button and whispered, "I need to wait a little longer. He's twitchy. Almost made me."

"Get it done," the voice on the other line growled. "You only have a half hour left in your window."

"Maybe," Derek whispered hesitantly, "maybe I could try again tomorrow?"

The radio squawked out loud, distorted feedback. Derek winced nervously at the sound. "No, you can't fucking do it tomorrow. Do it now." With a click, the connection turned off.

Derek sighed and wiped his face with his hand. Then he stood and looked around, even though he knew it was as secluded as it was ever going to be. He loosened his pants and stepped out of them, throwing his shirt onto the ground as he did. Derek felt his bones creak as he changed. He saw his reflection in the shadowy window and winced again; he was huge and skinny looking, with shaggy black fur. Once, more than a year before, he'd been assured he'd start filling out soon, that the muscles would grow and he'd be more powerfully built like his brother.

The man in the house screamed when he launched himself through the window. Derek shook the debris from his fur and snarled. His mark whirled away and ran, but Derek blocked him back into the kitchen. The last thing he saw before he woke up was the spray of blood that had splashed onto the ceiling.

* * *

Derek woke up with a shout. The bedsheets were twisted around his legs and waist and he struggled out of them to his feet. Eventually he ripped them with his claws and fell, breathing hard, onto the bedroom floor. He sat naked against the wall, so reminiscent of his memory-filled dream.

Stiles scrambled out of bed and joined him, crouching in front of the other man with the remains of the sheets around his feet. "Hey, hey," he whispered gently, "you're okay. It's over." He put his hands on Derek's shoulders and rubbed them up and down. Derek pressed his nose against Stiles' wrist and breathed in deeply.

"It's just hard, remembering it all in my sleep," he whispered into Stiles' skin. The younger man grimaced in sympathy and kept rubbing Derek's skin.

Stiles sat up and went to the bedside table. He withdrew a small black notebook and a mechanical pencil. "You know the drill. Gotta write it down."

Derek shook his head. He closed his eyes and leaned back, seeing more blood and violence behind his eyelids. "I don't want to," he muttered sourly.

Stiles grumbled and poked Derek's chest with the pencil. "Come on, dude. You know it makes you feel better. You started it."

When Stiles didn't stop poking him, Derek growled and took the notebook and pencil. Stiles sank to the floor at his side, saying nothing while Derek scribbled down his dream on the lined paper. He tried to capture every detail he could remember, from the scents and sounds of that evening, the feelings it had incurred, to the way he had vomited in his bathroom after being congratulated by his handler, Mr. Cross. The scratching of the pencil filled the bedroom as their own silence went on.

"What was it about?" Stiles asked tentatively. He tilted his head onto Derek's broad shoulder.

Derek set the pencil and notebook down on the floor. He bumped his nose against Stiles' hairline. "Let's just go back to sleep," he murmured softly.

"No," Stiles refused. He grabbed the notebook from the floor. "I want you to talk to me. You've been having nightmares ever since we got here, almost every night." Quickly he thumbed through the pages. "You didn't draw dicks in here again, did you?"

"That was one time," Derek muttered, closing his eyes again. "It was my second job. I remember being afraid, and... and seeing my reflection in the window." Seeing and remembering his thin wolf form gave him more conflicting feelings than almost anything else.

Stiles turned to look at him. "What about your reflection?"

"I looked... different." Derek shrugged, unable to articulate his thoughts. Stiles hummed and lifted his arm and put it around Derek's shoulder in solidarity.

"It's okay. You wrote it down."

Derek sighed. "I just remember," he said slowly, while Stiles nodded encouragingly, "that I looked like a teenager, and that my – my mother said one day I'd fill out like my older brother. Even though he wasn't an alpha, and probably wouldn't be, he – he was huge, just this solid mass of brown and white fur and muscle and I wanted to be just like him for the longest time. And it made me..." He couldn't say what it made him, but Stiles seemed to understand. At any rate, he pulled Derek closer and wrapped his arms around him.

After nearly twenty minutes sitting against the wall, Stiles stood up and stretched. "Alright, big guy." He offered his hand to the other man, who took it and stood with a grunt. "Let's try for some sleep." Derek followed him obediently back into the bed. They kicked the torn sheets off the mattress and pulled the comforter up to their chins.

Stiles cradled Derek into his chest. He could feel Derek's heartbeat through the thin cotton of his own t-shirt. "You know what this means, right?" Stiles whispered into his hair.

Derek snickered and pressed his face into the crook of Stiles' neck. "We'll buy new sheets tomorrow."

* * *

It was the beginning of April and they were still living quietly in the apartment in Portland. Stiles still worked at the bar at night and listened to awful cover bands on the weekends. Derek still came in every night to be with Stiles. The manager, Mr. Finstock, had even given him a job as a bouncer on the busier nights, considering he was there every evening and always looked like he needed something to do besides making moony eyes at Stiles.

Stiles' coworker, Sarah, had been right; spring in Maine was something unlike anything he'd ever seen. The entire state seemed to shake off the white winter weight and push brightness and light through the cracks. Blooming flowers and trees were everywhere, and when they looked out their window at the ocean across the street, it was always filled with bright white sails. Their life was suddenly more peaceful after the harrowing journey up and down the country. Stiles wondered if it was what it would have been like if they had met under more normal circumstances. They cooked together, watched movies together, slept together, and fought together until they didn't know where one started and the other began.

Derek took Stiles to a local shooting range at least once a week. Stiles had learned to shoot handguns with his dad and could take them apart, but now he could reassemble and accurately fire a shotgun and a long range rifle as well. Derek would stand behind him and correct his stance, never barking orders but stubbornly refusing to move on from an issue until Stiles could do whatever he was teaching him perfectly. Sometimes, if no one was watching, he'd press a gentle kiss into Stiles' hairline to encourage him.

Other days, as the days got nicer, they'd go for hikes. Sometimes it would be simple, like a walk around one of the islands in the bay. They would sit on the beach and throw rocks at the shore. When Derek handed him a perfect periwinkle shell, Stiles had blushed and put it in his pocket. They didn't have to say anything else besides that. The simplest things meant the most.

Once, Derek had rented a car and driven them all the way to the White mountains to hike Mt. Washington. They'd walked and hiked for hours, until Stiles got a stitch in his side and refused to move. Derek had laid down next to him. They watched their breath fog into the sunshine and talked for hours before moving on. They played crossword on the ride home.

* * *

Bennett had become a werewolf hunter when he was sixteen years old. He'd grown up in Los Angeles and had learned to protect himself early on from gangs and other unspeakable things that went bump in the night. When he was a teenager, he found out that the gang fighting for turf in his neighborhood wasn't the usual Los Angeles kind but an enormous werewolf pack out for blood and new members. They murdered his sister right in front of him and the cops called it coyotes without a second look. When the Argents came to clean up the streets, he asked for a wolfsbane bullet loaded gun and never went home. They gave him a new family, a new purpose, and he became their soldier.

Now, ten years later, he sat in a vacant apartment on the eastern Prom in Portland, chain smoking cigarettes and blowing smoke rings in the air. He'd been traveling around the country for weeks, staking out different, run down apartments for a few days in many different cities until he'd get a call telling him to go somewhere else. The Argents said he was hunting a dangerous omega, but they didn't know exactly where he was. This was the sixth apartment he'd watched in as many weeks.

The previous day, however, he'd finally caught a break. Sometime around noon, a dark haired man had exited the house wearing a black wife beater and running pants. He'd stretched briefly and started a slow jog to the beach. An hour later he'd returned and gone back into the house. Bennett had immediately called the Argents to inform them of the good news: finally, their target had been found.

His phone beeped and drew his attention. He picked it up with a grunted, "Hello?"

"How's everything going?"

Bennett sighed and held the phone on his shoulder. "I haven't seen anyone all morning. I'm just biding my time." He put the rifle down and stood with the phone in his hand. "What did this omega do again?"

Victoria Argent snapped on the other end, "He's a murderer. That's the end of the story."

"Well, I figured that," Bennett retorted. "But the code -"

"Forget the code and do your damn job, Bennett."

Bennett paused to look down at his phone. To the Argents, the code – the hunter golden rule stating that without absolute proof, no werewolf was to be harmed, and no humans were ever to be harmed at all – was sacrosanct. Violating it would be the end of them as hunters, and hearing the general of the Argent hunter family tell him to "forget the code" was unheard of. "Are... are you sure, Mrs. Argent?" He asked uncertainly.

"Bennett, shoot the fucking wolf and come back to Virginia. No arguments." There was a beep as the phone let the call go. He stared at it again, suddenly unsure of himself and his mission. He didn't know anything about this wolf, codenamed Alpha 1 in the miniscule file he'd been given, besides what he looked like and where he lived.

But the code...

He settled himself back by the window with his rifle. He kept cleaning it while he stared at the ocean, lost in unsettled thoughts.

* * *

"Derek! If you don't get in here now I'm going to eat all of the scrambled eggs!" Stiles called out from the kitchen the next morning. He began spooning the fluffy yellow eggs onto two chipped plates and sprinkled a touch of cheese onto each pile. Another pan full of sizzling bacon was soon emptied onto a paper towel covered plate. A piece of toast on each plate completed the domestic scene.

Stiles heard the squeaky water from the shower turn off. "Don't touch my eggs, Stiles!" Skidding slightly on the wooden floor, Derek stumbled out of the bathroom. He was soaking wet and had a towel wrapped around his hips. He took the plate piled high with fluffy, cheesy eggs and toast and began eating.

Stiles chuckled and wiped his hands on a dish rag. "Threatening your eggs always works." He attempted to steal some of the eggs from Derek's plate with his fork. Derek snapped at him playfully and hunched further over his food, shoveling more into his bulging cheeks.

As he put the empty egg carton into the recycling bin and milk back into the refrigerator, Stiles said, "Dude, we so need to go grocery shopping today."

Derek snorted through a mouthful of bacon. "Yeah, and get new sheets."

"I think we should just buy a bunch, if that's going to be a regular occurrence." Stiles perched across the counter from Derek and munched on his own bacon thoughtfully. He laughed when Derek shot him a dirty look.

"Are you going to take a shower too?" Derek asked him after a pause.

Stiles finished the rest of his eggs and bacon without answering and stretched. He sprawled his gangly form across the counter and pressed his lips to Derek's. Derek smirked into Stiles' mouth and pulled him closer by his t-shirt. Stiles squeaked and flailed as Derek hauled him over the counter and into his arms.

"I have to take a shower," he whined as Derek settled him into a sitting position back onto the counter and stood, fitting himself between Stiles' legs. Stiles wrapped his legs around him and sighed as Derek rubbed his nose against his jawline. "Also," he said breathlessly, "it's not fair that you can manhandle me over a countertop."

"Do you want me to stop?" Derek's voice was low and gravelly as he nibbled on the sensitive skin under Stiles' chin.

Stiles countered, "Do you want to get more eggs?"

"Not really," Derek shrugged. He pressed a kiss to Stiles' cheek and whispered, "But I could go for a second shower."

Stiles leaped off the counter and ran into the bathroom, flinging his t-shirt away as he went. Derek laughed and followed him. The towel around his waist slipped through his fingers as he went.

* * *

They left the apartment an hour later. Even though spring had already arrived in Maine, the wind off the ocean was still chilly. Stiles shivered and zipped his hoodie up under his chin while Derek wrapped his arm around him.

"What do you want to do first," Stiles asked him, "groceries or the mall?"

"The mall," Derek replied. He looked around covertly and pulled Stiles to his chest behind the maple tree on the corner. It was a secluded spot and couldn't be easily seen from the Promenade. "But I want more you first."

"Derek," Stiles grinned, "you know how much I like you, but we literally just did this."

Derek chuckled again and held Stiles tighter. "Maybe I feel like I can finally relax and – and enjoy my pack for once."

"Yeah, I know what you mean." Stiles leaned his face against Derek's and closed his eyes. He felt safer in that moment than he had in months.

A sudden pain flared through his neck and shoulder. It felt as though someone had stabbed him with a white hot iron rod. Stiles lifted his hand to his neck and pulled it away bright, sticky red. "D-D-Derek?" He coughed and more blood flew at Derek's face.

He felt Derek catch him as he collapsed to the ground behind the maple tree. His vision went black, and he remembered nothing after that.

* * *

Bennett swore vehemently as his bullet bypassed Alpha 1 and hit the man he was embracing. He took his rifle apart quickly and packed it away in a guitar case. As he bounded down the stairs, he pulled out his phone and pressed the first speed dial.

"What's your status, Bennett?" Chris Argent answered the phone on the second ring.

"Operation failed," he cursed. "I hit a civilian, some guy hanging around with Alpha 1 -"

"Genim Stilinski?" There were pages ruffling on the other end of the line. "Tall kid, skinny, buzzcut?"

Bennett rushed out the door into his rental car. As he sped away he answered, "Yeah, yeah, that was him. Who is he? He wasn't in the file you gave me."

Chris Argent sighed. "We didn't know they'd still be together. You said you only saw Alpha 1 yesterday!"

"Yeah, I did, and now I fucking killed a human!" Bennett tried to concentrate on the road, but he had to pull over on a side street in the city to regain his composure. He swore again and hit his steering wheel in anger.

"Bennett, Bennett, you need to listen to me," Chris's tinny voice called over the phone. "Genim Stilinski is a priority two, okay? He was the job you were supposed to get started on after killing Alpha 1."

"But," Bennett argued, "he's human. He's innocent."

"It's more complicated than you think, son," Chris replied. For the first time Bennett realized Chris sounded more world weary than ever. "Just find a place to lay low. We'll contact you later this week about Alpha 1 to finish the job." He hung up before Bennett could respond.

With a sharp exhale through his nose, Bennett revved the car up the hilly street and made for the nearest hotel. Free cable and room service would give him plenty to take his mind off these uncomfortable, confusing events.

* * *

Derek felt the bullet whiz just past his cheek and hit Stiles in the neck. Blood immediately started gushing from the wound, making the air around them smell tangy and metallic.

"D-D-Derek?" Stiles coughed weakly. A fine spray of blood shot out of his mouth and Derek felt the mist settle onto his face. He barely had time to catch Stiles as he fell to the ground.

"No, no, no," he murmured frantically while Stiles coughed and sputtered. He was turning paler by the minute. "Stiles, stay with me!" But Stiles' eyes were already rolling to the back of his head. Derek could hear his heartbeat struggling in vain as more blood left his body. It gleamed brightly on the newly grown grass under the tree.

Derek laid him down carefully. There was no one around to watch as his eyes turned red and fangs extended from his mouth. Stiles' life was flowing from his veins and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

* * *

"Do you want me to bite you?" The question had come late at night, just after they'd gotten into bed after Stiles had come home from work.

Stiles turned in his arms to look at him, a confused expression on his face. "What do you mean?"

Derek huffed and pecked him quickly on the neck. "You said you didn't want Peter to bite you because you didn't want to be a wolf like him. I can," and he looked away briefly, a strange flush creeping up his cheeks, "I mean, you said you wanted to be a wolf like me. I can do that now."

Stiles sat up on his elbows. The comforter fell to his hips, baring his bare chest. "I don't know if I want to be a werewolf," he answered truthfully, looking at his long, pale hands. "I like being human."

"I'm not trying to pressure you," Derek assured him hurriedly. "I'm not going to turn you if you don't want it."

"I guess I don't want it, then."

An awkward silence fell in the bedroom. "Would you ever want it?" Derek whispered in the dark.

Stiles shrugged, still not looking at him. "I don't know. Do you want me to want it?"

This time Derek shrugged. "I just – you are my pack, in every way that matters. Being a wolf with me would just be... icing on the cake, I guess."

"What kind of icing?" Stiles gave him a small smile and settled himself back into Derek's arms. Derek felt relief wash through him, knowing Stiles wasn't angry or afraid about the conversation. The younger man's humorous reflex was one of Derek's favorite things about him. "That's the real important question here."

"What kind of icing do you want?"

"Cream cheese," Stiles answered immediately. "With red velvet cake, obviously."

"I'm offering you supernatural powers, Stiles, not a cake."

Stiles snorted. "My birthday's in April, just FYI. I want that cake."

Derek rolled them over so Stiles was perched on his chest. He smiled easily. "Okay."

* * *

Stiles' heartbeat was slowing down. Derek looked around again frantically, but there was no one around him. He cradled Stiles in his lap and pulled his t shirt down around his shoulder. On the other side it was already stained to the sleeve a rusty brown. "I'm sorry, Stiles," he whispered as he bared his teeth again and bit into the sensitive flesh.


	3. Anchor

**AN: **I do not own Teen Wolf or the Bourne movies.

* * *

Stiles woke up slowly, feeling as though he were being pulled from thick mud. His entire body felt leaden and far too warm. Even the inside of his mouth tasted like dirt and blood.

He awoke completely then, catapulting himself into a sitting position. He remembered being shot in the neck and falling to the ground outside the Portland apartment. The last thing he could remember was Derek's terrified face looming over him while he fainted against the tree. And yet, he felt totally fine. He cracked his neck experimentally, feeling no pain whatsoever.

Looking around the room, Stiles realized he wasn't in their apartment anymore. Where that had been a pale sort of place, empty of most personal effects and spotlessly clean, the room he was in now was full of cheery quilts and hand carved wood decorations. He thought he might be in a log cabin or something.

The next thing he noticed was Derek asleep in a rocking chair next to his bed.

If that had been their first meeting, Stiles would have assumed Derek had been the one to get shot. He was hunched into himself as though drawn in pain. The t-shirt he was wearing was crinkled and dirty, with a lot of crusty redness clinging to the front and side. Stiles' nose was suddenly awash with the scent of old blood. His blood. He knew it instantly, intimately. He clapped his hand to the left side of his neck. It was completely unblemished. He checked the other side, just in case, confused – he'd been sure that was the side that had been shot. There was nothing on that side either.

A strange thumping echoed in his ears. Stiles looked around the room again for the source. For a moment he thought it might be his own heartbeat. A flame of comprehension lit in his mind, and he turned his head more towards Derek's sleeping form. The thumping got incrementally louder as he turned his head to the rocking chair.

"Holy fuck," he whispered.

Derek stirred as he spoke. Stiles scrabbled out of the bed and tripped over his own feet as Derek shook his head and looked around for him. "Stiles," his voice cracked with tiredness and relief, "you're awake." He moved forward to embrace him.

"What the hell is going on, Derek?" Stiles didn't know why he was so angry. He was alive, after all. But the anger didn't fade, only intensified. He felt pain in his palms and looked down to see his fingernails were long and pointed claws.

Derek stopped in his tracks, a hand still extended in the air. "You were going to die; you were dying. There was – there was nothing else I could do. I – I couldn't just leave you there." His voice broke again, as though the memory of a dying Stiles was too much to bear.

Stiles held up his own hands defensively, both terrified and enraged at the sight of his own nails. "Why did you – I told you, I never wanted this!"

"Did you want me to leave you there, bleeding on the side of the fucking road?" Derek had raised his voice. He sounded confused and hurt, as though he didn't understand why Stiles didn't want to be alive.

Stiles felt something break inside him. It was as though a cage had been built inside himself, containing an angry, frightening animal. The crack felt like the animal had been released, had torn the lock off and now was free to hurt, to terrorize. He could feel his eyes bleed away their normal brown and become a bright, feral yellow. He roared – really roared, like a bear, "You had no right to do this to me! I wanted to stay human!"

Derek's eyes flashed red. For a moment, the animal inside Stiles considered backing down at the sight of his alpha. "I did this to save your life," he growled. "If you really wanted to bleed out in the dirt, maybe you should have stayed in Virginia and not let your fucking hero complex get the better of you."

The blow was low and they both knew it. Stiles shoved Derek backwards in anger. He was surprised to find that instead of barely being able to move the older man like usual, he could send him sprawling across the room. Derek landed on his back with a muffled grunt. Stiles bared his teeth with a snarl and found they were long and sharp. He bellowed again like a bull, the animal in his chest egging him on.

"You had no right," he repeated sharply as Derek struggled to his feet. "You made me a monster, a rabid fucking dog!"

For a moment it seemed that Derek would attack him. The air in the room was filled with undercurrents of tension and rumbling growls. Suddenly, in an instant, Derek was upon him, all sinewy muscles and teeth. He pinned Stiles to the bed with an unyielding hand on his neck and his entire body pressed against him. "Do you think I'm a rabid dog?" He hissed in Stiles' ear. The rational part of Stiles' brain recognized the broken sort of sadness Derek was so partial to hidden in the anger.

"No, I don't," Stiles growled into the bedspread. He shook his head as much as he could under Derek's brutal grip. The bed almost seemed to be vibrating with the force of the werewolves' deep rumblings.

Derek shook him roughly by the neck, forcing him harder into the bed. "You are not a monster, Stiles. The bite is a gift!" On the last word, he threw Stiles from him as though disgusted. Stiles collided with the wall and landed with a pained noise on the bed.

Stiles stood and dusted himself off. He glared at Derek, a cold, ugly look on his face. "You know," he finally spat, "that is the first time you have ever asked for gratitude for saving my life."

"That's not – that's not what I meant." Derek took a step back, his hand outstretched again. It looked like a confusing gesture for peace. "It was Peter who would have done that to you, made you a monster. I want," Derek struggled briefly for the right words, his face contorting at the effort, "nothing more than what we had. Nothing has changed between you and me, I swear. You're a werewolf but you'll always be Stiles."

Stiles growled again and lashed out with his hand. The animal inside was unwilling to back down. It wanted to rip the man in front of it apart and then run for miles, forgetting every shred of humanity that had boxed it up. The claws at the end of his fingers scratched Derek's face, leaving four perfect, bloody lines. When he attacked again Derek caught his wrist and spun him around so his back was against Derek's solid chest. Stiles struggled but Derek wrapped his arm around his throat, nearly cutting off his air. His other hand was warm against Stiles' waist, with his own claws scraping dangerously over the skin. "This is not you, Stiles! Stop it!" Stiles struggled harder, ripping through Derek's forearm with his claws. Derek only ignored the pain and blood and squeezed harder. Finally there was a crunching sound; Derek's arm had completely crushed his windpipe. Stiles choked for breath for a moment until the damage had healed.

The animal in Stiles whined pitifully, recognizing the moment to back down. Stiles was surprised to hear the sound escape his lips: it was high pitched and pathetic. He could almost see the creature rolling on its back and baring its throat in submission.

Derek growled low in his throat and pressed his mouth against the beating pulse beneath Stiles' skin. Stiles whined again as Derek's fangs pricked him. He unconsciously leaned his head over to give Derek better access to the blood in his veins. He managed to stutter out over the staccato of his heart, "I – I never wanted this, Derek. I'm just so – so furious right now..."

Finally Derek pulled back enough to rest his nose against the nape of Stiles' neck. He sighed softly, his warm breath feathering through the downy hair there. "It's the full moon tomorrow," he whispered softly. "You're feeling angry and afraid. It happens to every wolf, but I'm – I'm going to help you." He paused briefly, his breath still humid and warm. "What else did you want me to do, Stiles?" He eventually pleaded. His grip tightened around Stiles' waist. "I couldn't lose you. You are... everything. You know that."

"I know," Stiles admitted. He leaned back into the warmth of Derek's arms. Derek nuzzled his neck, but there was no threat in it, only tenderness.

Derek murmured against his skin, "I know you didn't want this. I know. I'm – I'm sorry, Stiles, but you were dying in my arms and this wasn't something a stolen first aid kit could cover." Stiles laughed weakly, thinking about the last time he'd been shot several months before.

"What's going to happen now?"

"I meant what I said," Derek murmured. "You're still Genim Stilinski. I still love you." The last words came out in the barest whisper.

"What about you being an alpha?" Stiles could feel the animal asking the question, not really himself. "I'm – I'm not an alpha. You're, like, above me, right?"

Derek grumbled and finally released Stiles. Stiles rubbed his throat, even though it was healed. "Technically," Derek said delicately when Stiles turned to face him, "yes, I'm the leader, and the wolf in you will look to me for guidance and orders. Oh for the love of God, Stiles," he pulled him back into his arms when the younger man scoffed and turned away, "you know that's not why I did this to you, because of some misguided power trip thing."

"Does that mean I always have to do what you say? Does that make me your bitch?" Stiles' tone was sullen.

"You might be a beta wolf," Derek said slowly, looking deep into Stiles' eyes with each word "but you're not beneath me. I'd never do anything you didn't want to. We're partners, just like before. And no," he finished with a snort, "you're definitely not my bitch."

Stiles huffed and shrugged. He was glad to be alive, certainly, but the wolf inside him still raged. The reflection of his eyes in Derek's own showed they were still yellow.

"It's just the same, Stiles," Derek whispered. He reeled Stiles slowly back into a hug and rubbed his back, a wonderfully familiar gesture. "I promise."

"What happened after... everything?" Stiles asked when they broke apart. "You haven't even changed since that day. Where are we, anyway?"

"Somewhere in Vermont," Derek shrugged. He picked at the dirty shirt he was wearing, as though seeing it for the first time. "It was kind of crazy after... after I bit you."

Stiles sat down on the bed and motioned for Derek to sit with him. "I'm listening, man. What happened to the guy who shot me?"

Derek let out a frustrated noise and ran his hand through his hair as he sat down. "I was kind of tied up with you. After I bit you I sort of smuggled you into a car parked up the street. Then I ran into the apartment, grabbed a couple things, our emergency bags, and the rest of the cash and ran. Before I left I dug the remains of the bullet out of the tree, in case I could find anything from it. Then I drove and drove until I was sure your body had accepted the bite."

"Wait." Stiles held up a hand in surprise. He could feel more anger welling up inside him. "There was a chance my body would reject the bite and just kill me anyway? Seriously?"

Derek reached out for his hand and laced their fingers. His eyes were soft and pleading. "Stiles, you were less than a minute from death when I bit you. Plus the bullet that hit you was stuffed full of wolfsbane. It made the transition much harder than usual. Either way it was lose you then, lose you later, or not lose you at all. I went with the option that gave me a chance of keeping you around." Not taking his eyes off Stiles, he pulled his hand closer and kissed his palm.

"So what happened after that?" Stiles' voice was a little breathless as he watched Derek's lips caress his skin. The wolf inside almost purred, enjoying the intimate contact with a packmate.

"Nothing. I found this cabin – I think it's a vacation home. I brought you here, washed you off, and waited for you to wake up. That was the night before last."

Stiles cracked a grin. "And you didn't think of showering before now? Dude, you reek." He waved a hand in front of his nose playfully.

Derek chuckled. "It's less the fact that I haven't bathed and more that you're smelling more than you've ever smelled before. It'll take time to get used to, but you'll get there."

"And the guy that shot me?"

"I don't know," Derek shook his head. "I don't even know who they were working with, if Cross sent them, or what. I just have the remains of the bullet. Hopefully I can work something out from it."

Stiles studied Derek's face closely. "You didn't leave my side at all, did you?" His voice was half filled with awe.

"No." Again, Derek's voice cracked slightly. The look he gave him was full of adoration and the tiniest hint of guilt. "I actually, um... haven't eaten since the eggs you made me the other day, either."

"Dude," Stiles groaned. He pulled Derek in for a hug this time and could hear the faint gurgling of the other man's empty stomach. "You would literally starve without me, wouldn't you?"

Derek's face was half abashed and half relieved. Stiles didn't smell so burnt with anger anymore. The new smell of Stiles mixed with the wild smell of werewolf was heady and irresistible. "I'd be lost without you," he murmured into Stiles' neck.

Stiles let him go and stood. He offered Derek a hand and pulled him up easily. He could totally get used to the super strength thing. "You get in the shower," he told Derek, "and I'll find food, okay?" Derek nodded obediently and walked towards the bathroom down the hall.

"Wait!"

Derek paused at the door to look at him.

"Is that an okay thing to do now?" Stiles' face had an odd, almost worried look on it. "I'm not trying to order you around or anything."

"You're telling me to take a shower, not commit murder," Derek laughed drily. He rubbed his hand through his hair again and caught Stiles' eye. "You're not inferior to me, Stiles. Think about it like... you're my mate, if that helps. We'll talk more about it when I'm done."

Stiles watched him go and rubbed his face with his hand, more careful of the claws this time. Derek's words echoed in his head. Mates? That sounded a little too strange for him today, and he'd woken up a werewolf not a half hour before.

* * *

"So," Stiles said through cheeks bulging with cheesy pizza, "you said you saved a bullet?"

Derek grunted through his own mouthful of pizza. He fished around in his pocket before tossing a small, metal item at Stiles' head. Stiles caught it one-handed, pleased at his new motor skills. It was crushed almost beyond recognition, but Stiles could see a shape pressed into the still-intact end.

"Have you taken a look at this yet?"

"No," Derek shook his head. "Why, do you see something?"

Stiles handed it back to him. "Yeah. Kind of looks like... an A? At the bottom."

Derek looked the bullet over carefully. His expression darkened and Stiles felt the wolf inside shrink back as though afraid. "This bullet came from an Argent gun," he growled. He closed his fist carefully over the remains and crushed it into a powder.

"Who are the Argents?" Stiles set the rest of his pizza down, wary of the expression on Derek's face.

"They're hunters: the oldest, most powerful family of hunters in the world." Derek answered. He pushed his own pizza away with sudden force and stood, pacing angrily. "Kate was an Argent."

Stiles sat back in his chair. Kate Argent – the first person Derek had ever loved, who had burned his house down to get him into the welcoming arms of the CIA. Everything about Derek, all his problems and anger, stemmed from that one woman. "Then they're crazy psychos like her?"

Derek shook his head vehemently. Stiles couldn't tell if he was agreeing or disagreeing. "I met Chris once. He was the leader; at least he was fifteen years ago. This was before I met Kate and learned she was his little sister. He came to Beacon Hills, introduced himself to my parents, and said he and his hunters were tracking an omega in the area, and they had no intention of harming our pack. Mom, she demanded the proof, and when he showed her and explained, she wished him well. Every time he came back into town, he always made a point of stopping by and letting us know he was in the area."

"Proof?" Stiles was confused.

"Hunters have a code. They only hunt those who hunt them, and always with absolute, undeniable proof. At least, the honorable ones do." His eyes flashed red for an instant and Stiles whined involuntarily, not liking Derek's anger. Derek frowned and put his hand on Stiles' shoulder.

"What are you thinking?" Stiles asked. He leaned against Derek's arm and looked into the older man's eyes. "Are they hunting you – us – because they know you've killed people? Or is this some kind of CIA diversion?"

With a shrug, Derek looked around the room. "I don't know," he admitted, tightening his grip on Stiles' shoulder. "If it's the former, it's a bit late to start hunting me, considering I've been doing this for a while. But if it's the latter, why would the Argents work for the CIA? Or rather, why would the CIA fake being an Argent?"

Stiles rubbed his nose on Derek's forearm and sighed. Derek's scent was intense and dark there. "What do you think we should do? Find the Argents, find out for ourselves what they're up to?"

Derek was silent for the moment. He wrapped both his arms around Stiles' neck and leaned onto him, resting his chin in the dip of his shoulder. Far from finding the weight oppressive, Stiles closed his eyes and nudged Derek's face with his own. "It'll be dangerous," Derek said softly. "More dangerous than anything we've ever done. The Argents have had five hundred years to perfect hunting werewolves."

"Yeah, well, they can't be that good if they shot me by accident," Stiles scoffed. "How's that for their code?"

"Stiles," Derek chided him gently, as though he didn't want to be reminded of those events.

Suddenly Stiles stood, knocking Derek back and waving his arms in excitement. "You said they used to go to Beacon Hills, right?" He asked Derek brightly.

"Yeah, they came through maybe twice as year for a long time."

"Then maybe," Stiles reached for the old rotary phone sitting on the desk, "someone from Beacon Hills will remember them."

Sheriff Stilinski picked up on the third dial. "Stilinski residence," he said gruffly.

"Hey Dad."

There was a whoosh of air released on the end of the line. The sheriff had sighed in relief. "Stiles," he said, and Stiles could tell he was smiling. "How are you, son?"

"We're good, Dad, just peachy keen," Stiles lied easily. "I, uh, I have a question for you, though. Do you remember the Argent family?"

"You mean Chris and Victoria Argent?" Stiles heard his dad slip into his regular interrogation mode. "You met them before; we had them over for dinner a few times before – before your mom got sick. They moved away though."

Stiles furrowed his brow, unable to think of the people his father was referring to. "Sorry, Dad, I can't really picture them. But, do you happen to know what happened to them? Where they might have moved to?"

"Stiles, why do you need to know?"

"It's just kind of important, Dad," Stiles whined. He felt like a teenager begging for the keys to the car. "Do you know or not?"

Another, more exasperated sigh sounded on the other end. "From what I heard, they moved to the east coast not long after the Hale house fire. Virginia, I'm pretty sure, somewhere near Richmond? Wait, Stiles, they don't have anything to do with -"

"Sorry Dad, gotta go, love you, tell Scott I said hi!" Stiles said everything very quickly and hung up the receiver. He looked sheepishly at Derek, who only shook his head in amusement.

"How reliable is your dad about this?"

"Please," Stiles snorted, "my dad is the literal worst about gossiping. He's worse than old ladies playing bridge. If he says they're in Virginia, they're around there."

"I mean it, Stiles." Derek was suddenly serious and right there, just inches from him. "The Argents are – they're the stuff of wolf nightmares. This isn't going to be easy."

Stiles cupped Derek's face. "They're the stuff of your nightmares," he murmured, "and we can fight nightmares together. What do you think we've been doing for the last few months?" Derek leaned forward and pressed his lips gently to Stiles'. Stiles smiled and opened his mouth, letting Derek's tongue hesitatingly explore.

"We'll leave the day after tomorrow," Derek whispered into his lips, "if you're sure."

Stiles pulled back a few inches. "Why not now?"

Derek kissed him again, only once. "Tomorrow is the full moon. We can't go anywhere; you're going to be too... uncontrollable."

Stiles frowned. "Am I going to be like I was earlier?"

"Worse." Derek put his hands on Stiles' hips. "I know you're scared, but I'm going to be here to protect you. I won't let you do anything stupid."

"And then we'll find the Argents?"

"And then," Derek agreed, "we'll find the Argents."

* * *

"How come you don't lose it on the full moon?"

Stiles was tied to the trunk of a thick, old oak tree with a steel chain. He was shirtless and even in the cooler mountain air sweat ran down his chest, courtesy of the effort he was spending maintaining his composure as the wolf howled under his skin.

Derek sat a few feet away on the ground. He was reading a book in the moonlight, looking almost bored. "A couple of reasons," he said, not putting the book away. "I'm older than you; I'm a born werewolf, and we naturally have more control than the bitten; and I have an anchor."

"What do you mean, an anchor?" Stiles gritted through his teeth. A bout of rage and pain swept through him like nausea and he doubled over with a snarl. Derek eyed him over the top of his novel.

"It's something that reminds you of your humanity," he explained. "It keeps your mind human even when your body is a wolf."

"What's yours?"

Without looking up from his book, Derek murmured, "You."

A whine rippled out of Stiles and he strained in vain against the chains binding him. "Why," he snarled, "do you think about me?"

"Because you look at me and think I'm a man, not a monster." Derek finally set the book down on the grass. "You know what I see when I look at you?"

"A hyperactive pain in your ass?" Stiles gritted his teeth again and nearly cut his tongues on his fangs.

"Absolutely," Derek snarked. "And I also see a man with so much heart he'd die for the people he loves. I see a man willing to risk his life for a gas station clerk he's never met before. I see an annoying med student. That's who I think of: the man who rescued me when I was dying." As he spoke, Derek took small steps towards Stiles until he was within arm's length. Stiles was breathing hard from his aborted attempts at escaping the chain.

When Derek touched his cheek, Stiles concentrated every particle of his being to focus on that one touch of contact. He recalled every instance of Derek touching him, from the first time they'd met and he'd put that cold stethoscope on his chest. Slowly, he felt the rage subside inside him. The wolf grumbled and tucked itself back under the folds of his skin.

Derek smiled at him, pleased at his control. Stiles held up his wrists and said, "Does this mean you're going to let me go?"

"Definitely not," Derek remarked. He sat back on the ground and went back to reading his book. Stiles stared at him, dumbfounded. When he noticed Stiles staring at him, he said, "Just because you gained control this one time tonight doesn't mean you're going to have it all night. You need to practice."

"All night?" Stiles was indignant.

"All night."

Stiles fell silent for a while. He asked Derek a few minutes later, "Do you think of me because I'm your mate?"

Derek raised his eyebrow. "I think about the things about you that make me want you as a mate," he finally answered, trying to be accurate. "Werewolves don't really mate the way regular wolves do. That was mostly just an expression for your benefit. I mean, werewolves get married and divorced just like other humans."

"I'm not your mate then?" Stiles felt the wolf uncoil itself under his skin. His eyes turned yellow again, gleaming in the night.

"It's complicated, Stiles," Derek sighed. He set the book down again. "Werewolves certainly devote themselves to their partners more than your average human. We're stupidly loyal, and once we love someone it... doesn't really go away. We're in it til we're not."

"Are you in it?" Stiles grumbled almost petulantly.

"Seriously, Stiles?" Derek rolled his eyes and picked up his book one more time. "You know I am. Stop being a pain in my ass and concentrate on your anchor."

The wolf in Stiles coiled up again, pleased with Derek's answer. Stiles was perfectly controlled as the sun rose over the treetops.


	4. The Romanoffs

**AN: **I do not own Teen Wolf or the Bourne Legacy.

* * *

The Holiday Inn by the Bay was swankier than the sleazy motels Bennett usually stayed in on hunts. His room had a nearly panoramic view of the harbor and Bennett had spent close to two days holed up in it. He'd wavered between extreme states of lethargy and mania. For a while he'd eat cold pizza and watch Dexter reruns on HBO, and then he'd pace up and down his room holding his cell phone and looking at the sailboats in the harbor, waiting for the Argents to call.

Eventually the phone began to ring. He heard the chirping from the bathroom and rushed out to pick the cell phone up, answering on the fourth ring and trying to sound like he hadn't just woken up from a three hour long nap. "Mr. Argent?"

"Time to head out, Bennett. New orders." Christopher Argent sounded snappish and irritable on the other end of the line.

Bennett ripped a piece of paper off a hotel memo pad sitting on the bedside table and grabbed a pen. He poised the pen over the paper, waiting for information. "Where am I headed, sir?"

"A Subaru Outback was reported stolen from the Promenade less than an hour after the... mishap." Bennett winced at the sound of the disapproval in his voice. No one could berate him more than Bennett had already berated himself; in fifteen years of hunting wolves, he had never hurt an innocent victim – until now.

"Sir, you can't know how sorry I -"

"It was found this evening abandoned in West Addison, Vermont: near the New York border," Chris spoke over him, continuing on as though he hadn't heard anything.

"Have any other vehicles been stolen from the area since then?"

Chris answered, "None have been reported missing, as of yet."

Bennett paused in his writing. "What is he doing then, lying low? Alpha 1 above all knows the dangers of staying still."

"If you didn't kill Stilinski outright, and I don't think you did, considering his death wasn't reported or investigated by the Portland police," Chris remarked, "then Alpha 1 turned him to save his life. Tonight's the full moon; they can't go anywhere without risking everything. And Alpha 1 is not that stupid."

"Why would Alpha 1 turn this guy?" Bennett rubbed his face in confusion and tiredness. He'd hardly slept all day except for his nap, favoring pacing around the perimeter of the room. "What are they to each other, brothers?"

"I think," Chris said drily, "that it's more intimate than that."

"Oh." Comprehension slowly dawned on him. "Oh! Seriously? They – they have time for that running around the country? What about Alpha 1 being an alpha – how does that work with a human pack?"

"Bennett, shut up." Chris barked, turning the conversation back to more important subjects. "They're going to be holed up in Vermont until the morning at the earliest. You need to go and find them. It's close to a five hour drive, so I suggest you get moving now. Get a new burner phone on the way and call me with your new number."

"Do you want me to... go after them tonight?" Bennett was a faithful soldier and an excellent shot, but the thought of facing two wolves – an alpha and a brand new beta – on the full moon made him very nervous indeed. He reached for his bag of wolfsbane bullets, rubbing the worn leather case compulsively. The Stilinski kid would be especially dangerous since he was new. Bennett had nearly killed him too, and few things were more scary than a werewolf with a vendetta.

"No, Bennett, of course not. Get out there, find them, and kill them in the morning. Both of them." Chris hung up without a goodbye.

It took barely ten minutes for Bennett to collect all of his clothes, his rifle and ammunition, and leave the hotel at breakneck speed. The sun was still shining even though it was fairly late, and Bennett oriented himself towards the slowly setting sun and drove west. He chose to take the back roads through the country, even though it would take longer than taking the highway. The idea of hunting two werewolves instead of one by himself was still disconcerting, and the extra time driving would help him get over any last nerves he might have.

Bennett found a gas station after driving for nearly an hour. He filled up his tank and bought a new disposable cell phone. From memory, he dialed Chris Argent's number and left a voicemail after only getting a busy signal. "Mr. Argent, Bennett. I'm on my way. My new number is 207-555-0823." He kept the message brief, hanging up after only a few seconds when the pump signaled his gas tank was full.

He sighed when he got into the car and pinched the bridge of his nose. There was a headache building up behind his eyes that pressed into his skin like a thousand tiny knives. Bennett shook his head again, trying to shake off the feeling of irritating pain and nausea, and started the car. The back country roads were dark and oppressive as he drove away towards the New Hampshire border.

* * *

Chris Argent closed his cell phone with muted click. He set it down on the kitchen counter and sighed, leaning over the marble and clutching the edges until his knuckles turned white. The kitchen was full of sunlight and he could see his wife outside in the garden, pruning roses. Even still, he felt cold and angry as sunshine streamed through the window and warmed his back.

"It seems your mistake will be cleared up shortly." A cold voice came from the doorway. Chris whirled around, his hunting knife already in his hand, to see the Puppeteer leaning casually against the door frame as though he owned it.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Chris lowered his arms, but he didn't pocket the hunting knife.

"Well," Mr. Cross said, absently checking his fingernails, "I was planning on killing you and your wife if you hadn't found out where Alpha 1 ended up, but I can see you've remedied that particular issue. Do you trust your man to kill them tomorrow?"

Chris gritted his teeth. "Bennett is the best soldier we have. What happened the other day was a mistake. It won't happen again."

"I should hope not." For an instant, David Cross's eyes flashed red. He stepped out of the doorway and into the kitchen. "Now, instead of an emotionally stunted alpha wolf and his boy wonder lover slash sidekick, I have to find a way to deal with a new pack of wolves. That, my friend, is your fault."

"I am not your friend," Chris hissed. He gestured angrily with the knife in his hand. Mr. Cross didn't move an inch as the blade came within a hair's distance of his throat. The movement of his eyes tracking the knife was the only thing that proved he registered the threat at all.

Victoria Argent came in through the back door in time to see the standoff in the kitchen. Her hair was windswept and she was carrying gardening gloves and pruning shears. She paused at the door, one hand still on the handle. "Are we good here?" Her eyes were wide and she held the pruning shears closer to her chest.

"Oh, we're fine, thank you Victoria," Mr. Cross sneered. He casually knocked the knife out of Chris's hand, where it clattered to the floor. The Argents paled; Victoria stepped closer to her husband and he put his arm around her shoulder. "Neither of you seem to have grasped the concept, even after ten years, that I own you. I own every single aspect of your lives. I own your daughter. I have everything you love under my fingertips and there is nothing you can do about it. And you fuck up like this?"

Victoria gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth and her usually icy eyes flooded with tears. Chris growled and pointed his finger at the Puppeteer. "You son of a bitch," he whispered, "get out of our house. Now!"

Mr. Cross roared, his eyes suddenly blood red. The Argents, so calm and controlled around other werewolves, so capable of bringing down the most frightening types of monsters, backed up into the counter, shying away from the wolf's terrible fury.

The Puppeteer quieted almost immediately. He tugged on the collars on his suit and tightened his tie, instantly a respectable looking businessman instead of a terrifying beast. "Now then," he murmured, still focused on his tie, "you will have both wolves dead by tomorrow morning. You will report to me by noon tomorrow. Am I clear?"

Both Argents nodded stiffly. Mr. Cross gave them both a predatory smile and turned to walk out the door. "By the way," he called over his shoulder, "Alpha 1's name is Derek Hale. I thought you should be aware of that." There was a loud slam as he left the Argent household.

Neither Argent moved a muscle for several long moments. Finally Victoria let out a shaky breath and leaned into her husband's arms. "Derek Hale," she muttered. "Do you think he's -"

"Son of a bitch!" Chris yelled. He growled and turned away from his wife, slamming his fists onto the counter. "Stilinski, I should have remembered. The sheriff from Beacon Hills? That was his last name."

Victoria's eyes went wide. "His son... Stiles? Was that his name?"

"It's Genim, really, but that's what he went by," Chris grumbled. "How the hell did the son of the sheriff of Beacon Hills and the last Hale werewolf even end up together?"

"Chris," Victoria grabbed his arm desperately, her eyes focused and bright, "do you think – do you think he knows where she is? What happened to her?"

"I can't think about that right now," he replied to his wife quietly. "We need to finish this, not think about Allison."

"But if we brought the Stilinski boy here -"

"Enough!" Chris roared. Victoria's eyes narrowed at her husband's uncharacteristic loss of control. She crossed her arms and took a step back, her demeanor suddenly cold. The birds singing outside juxtaposed awkwardly with the scene in the kitchen.

Chris sighed again and opened his arms, beckoning her to him. She pursed her lips and stepped away. "Call Bennett back," she snapped. "Tell him to take Stilinski alive."

"Derek Hale won't give up his pack so easily, you know this, Victoria!" Chris lost his temper again and yelled.

"So take him alive too!"

"One man can't do that," Chris pleaded. He leaned over the counter again and shook his head. "Bennett can't take two wolves by himself and we have no other hunters up that way."

Victoria breathed heavily through her nose. "What about the Romanoffs?" She asked after a moment. "Don't they work out of Erie?"

"Erie isn't exactly a hop, skip, and jump to Vermont," Chris said sarcastically. He rolled his eyes and began pacing the length of the kitchen. "Even if we called them now and they agreed to go, which there's no telling they will, they probably won't get there until the morning anyway. And," he gestured wildly, "how are we going to convince them to take the wolves alive?"

"I don't fucking care what you tell them, Chris," Victoria said. She thrust the cell phone into his hands. "Just call Bennett and the Romanoffs. Get them to bring the wolves here, where we can talk to them, and if Cross asks, we ran into some problems and are bringing them here to our facilities."

Shaking his head but still grabbing the cell phone from his wife, Chris said, "He'll never believe that."

"I need to know, Chris!" Victoria lost her composure and screamed at him. A single cold tear streamed down her cheek.

"And you think I don't? Jesus, Victoria, she's my daughter too!"

Victoria slapped him across the face. Her hand left a scorching red mark down his cheek and her wedding ring snagged on his lip, splitting it open and scattering drops of blood on the kitchen floor. She gasped and covered her mouth in shock as Chris wiped the cut with the back of his hand.

"I loved her," Chris whispered in a dangerously quiet voice, "from the moment I laid eyes on her. Giving her up, making her think we died, was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. Don't," he pointed his finger directly in her face, "don't tell me that I don't love her as much as you do."

"Then how can you tell me you don't want to talk to Stilinski?" Victoria's trembling lip and wide eyes gave away her desperate feelings, even as she clenched her jaw to try and control herself.

Chris stood silent, looking down at the cell phone in his hand. He slowly dialed a number with a Pennsylvania area code.

* * *

Night had well and truly fallen by the time Bennett reached his destination. He pulled into a fast food restaurant and picked up something to eat; he'd been driving non stop all afternoon without stopping to eat. As he chewed slowly, the phone call from Chris Argent he had received a few hours before replayed in his head.

"The Romanoffs will be joining you later this evening. Your mission is to capture the wolves and bring them back to Virginia."

"Why – why the change in plans, sir?"

"You do as you're told, Bennett, no more. Find the wolves and lay low; the Romanoffs will be contacting you when they cross into Vermont."

"Yes sir."

So he chewed and swallowed his burger and fries, contemplating the new mission. Hunting wolves was one thing, something he was very good at. Killing wolves was something else he was very good at. Capturing wolves and keeping them alive long enough to drive twelve hours to Virginia was not something he was betting he was good at.

Bennett bought a map of the area at the next gas station he drove by. There were sprinklings of summer cabins and camps all over, and it would take time to search them all. He would have to wait until the Romanoffs showed up to search every camp. They were a good hunting group, large and experienced, and had had connections with the Argents for almost a hundred years on and off. Before the Argents had moved east, they had kept watch over the entire mid-Atlantic.

A text flashed on his phone. It was from an unknown number and simply said, "ETA 2 hrs 45 mins." Bennett shrugged and assumed the Argents had given his number to the Romanoffs. As he got into his car and rolled down the window, he heard the faint sound of a wolf howling at the gigantic full moon in the sky. Bennett lit a cigarette, blew a smoke ring out the window and smiled. Maybe the wolves would be easier to find than he had originally thought.


	5. My Own Personal Monster

**AN: **I do not own Teen Wolf or the Bourne movies.

* * *

"Dude, my arms hurt." It was close to three in the morning, and Stiles was still chained around the thick tree in the middle of the woods. He tugged aimlessly at the chain and rubbed his wrists with his fingertips, willing more warmth and feeling into them.

Derek rolled his eyes. "You can heal from anything now. They aren't getting sore or tired, so stop whining." He was on his second book of the evening, having raided their cabin's library for new material around midnight. Stiles had laughed uproariously when Derek returned with an old, battered copy of A Game of Thrones.

"It's supposed to be good," Derek had muttered defensively. Stiles only grinned and pulled the chains to their limit to kiss him on the lips.

Stiles banged the chains in boredom again. "When are you going to let me go? I haven't shifted in a couple hours."

"Not until the sun has risen, Stiles." The argument was already tired. Derek flipped through the pages idly, his eyes not really tracking the words on the paper. A human wouldn't have seen two feet in front of their face in the forest, but both Stiles and Derek could see everything as clear as if the noonday sun were shining. Everything had a cold, grey tinge to it, and every detail was highly defined by the moonlight through the leaves. Derek looked up from the book, furrowed his brow and asked, "When does Ned Stark die? I'm already in the middle and he's still alive."

"What the hell, man," Stiles threw up his hands in exasperation. "How do you even know that's going to happen?"

"Really, Stiles?" Derek laughed and closed the book. "Remember when we were driving through Tennessee and you spent six hours detailing the entire plot of the series? Remember that? You even told me what happens to Jon Snow, which, for that matter, I haven't forgiven you for."

Stiles grumbled something under his breath that sounded an awful lot like, "It's not like I wrote it or anything," and turned away. A swath of moonlight shifted through the trees and bathed his naked chest in light. He growled low in his throat, the moon making the wolf inside creak and shiver. His eyes flashed in Derek's direction and he shook his head, willing the wolf back into submission.

"You're doing well. Better than most born werewolves, honestly." Derek rested his hands on his knees and caught Stiles' eye.

Stiles growled again and felt his teeth grow. Dangerous desires rose up in his throat. With a bark he staggered towards Derek, who only chuckled at him as his teeth snapped in the thin air less than a foot from Derek's face.

"Still think I'm doing well?" Stiles managed to spit out through gritted teeth.

Derek answered immediately, "Yes, you are. Just keep focusing on your anchor. Don't give in to your instincts." He rose to his feet and approached Stiles slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements.

Stiles trembled as Derek put his hand softly on his cheek. He closed his eyes and tried to focus again on the contact, on the warmth he felt spreading from Derek's fingertips, but the wolf had other ideas. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead an awesome howl escaped. The loud, throaty sound reverberated through the trees and caused a small shower of leaves to fall on their heads.

"Come on, Stiles," Derek whispered. His touch on Stiles' face was still tender and gentle. "You can do this, just focus. Focus on me."

"I want to go home," Stiles mumbled into Derek's hand. The wolf was subsiding as he breathed in Derek's scent.

Derek thumbed his cheek, the rough pad of his thumb making him shiver again. "What do you mean?"

Stiles pressed his face harder into Derek's hand and sighed. "I want to be home in bed with you, watching a movie, something, anything besides running again. I never wanted to keep running."

"I know," Derek said. He hummed softly and sat back on the ground a few feet closer to Stiles than before. Over the pages of the book, he murmured, "I never wanted to, either."

"Can't we just go?" Stiles pleaded. "Go somewhere else and hide?"

"You think I haven't thought about that?"

Stiles crawled towards him, the chains limiting him to a spot a foot from Derek. "Have you? Come on, Derek, tell me the truth. Let's just go somewhere. Goa, maybe?"

He smiled when Derek chortled at him. "Why Goa?"

"That's where Jason Bourne and Marie go after the Bourne Identity," Stiles supplied eagerly. "We should go. Warm beaches, good food, yoga. You'll love it."

Derek rolled his eyes again and kissed Stiles' forehead. "Let's get out of Vermont first. Then we'll work on international travel."

* * *

Stiles dozed lightly against the tree as the sun started rising. The world slowly went from black to gray to pinkish yellow. He woke with a groan as a weak beam of light suddenly hit him in the face.

"Okay, that might have been the second worst night in my life," he muttered to himself. He squirmed uncomfortably and rubbed his wrists. No matter what Derek said about his new, superior healing, they were red and chafed under the metal.

Derek was sleeping a few feet away. His head was pillowed on A Game of Thrones and his feet were touching Stiles' legs near the knee. They had both fallen asleep a little after four in the morning, just as it became clear that the moon's influence over Stiles was waning.

A gravelly voice came from near his feet. Derek's eyes were still closed, but his breathing had quickened imperceptibly in his wakefulness. "What was the worst?"

"It involved a lot of driving. And a lot of Nevada," Stiles replied gruffly. He stretched his hands as far above his head as the chains allowed and cracked his neck. The chains jangled again as he extended in wrists towards Derek. "Can you please untie me? Please?"

Derek groaned and sat up, rubbing the back of his head and mussing up his hair. Leaves and debris clung to the back of his shirt as he stood. Stiles stood to meet him and Derek took a key out of his pocket. He undid the padlocks and let the chain fall to the ground while Stiles rubbed his hands up and down his sides. The light frost on the ground was already melting in the growing light, but the mountain air was still chilly.

Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek's neck and pulled him closer into a comforting hug. Derek nibbled his neck in a playful sort of way, and Stiles suddenly felt much warmer under the heat of his wolfish gaze. Derek placed his hands firmly on Stiles' hips and pushed him into the rough bark of the tree. Stiles hummed as Derek mouthed at the hot skin of his neck, then gasped as teeth nipped at his jaw.

"So you think I did well, huh? I kicked that full moon's ass," said Stiles as Derek crowded against him.

Derek kept pressing his face into Stiles' neck. "Yeah, you did alright."

"Come on," Stiles said, the corners of his mouth upturned slightly, "you know how much I crave reaffirmation." He smiled brightly when he felt the corners of Derek's own mouth turn up into his skin.

"You did great, Stiles," Derek finally acquiesced in his ear. He pulled Stiles in for a quick, tight hug and retracted before Stiles could truly hug him back. "We have to get moving though."

"Can we stop for breakfast first? I could eat a cow." Stiles grimaced as he placed his hand over his grumbling stomach. "Literally. I think I could."

Before Derek could do more than smile at him, a whooshing sound whistled through the trees. Stiles looked up just in time to see a thick bolt from a crossbow fly at him and pin him to the tree.

* * *

Bennett woke up with a strangled yelp in the early dawn hours of the morning. His forehead was creased where he had fallen asleep against the steering wheel of his car. After the Romanoffs had finally shown up, they had patrolled the mountains looking for any sign of wolves during the full moon. Bennett had thought it would be easy, considering how well equipped they were, but the Romanoffs had given up after only a few hours, citing the long drive for their tiredness. That left Bennett to patrol by himself all through the night. Before dawn, however, he'd given up as well and fallen asleep in the driver's seat of his car.

He wiped drool from his mouth and looked around. He'd parked in the dirt parking lot of a camp alongside a lake. It wasn't open yet, and every building and campsite looked empty and abandoned. There were cabins spaced here and there throughout the forest, each one in need of some pre-summer maintenance.

Stretching and yawning, he exited the car and picked up a wicked looking crossbow from the back of his trunk. He loaded up a few bolts, favoring the ones with sharp, barbed tips. It only took a few moments to ready himself for a new hunt. He took a few swigs of water and smoked a cigarette before starting off into the woods.

Bennett trotted through the dimly lit forest, his eyes peeled for any moment. He nearly took the head off of a squirrel chittering away on a branch. He felt twitchy and nervous, especially since he knew his closest allies were asleep in some skunky motel a few miles away.

Luck was on his side this morning, though. As the sun really started to rise, Bennett caught a flash of movement through the dense foliage. The faint clang of metal chains came to his ears; he ducked behind a maple tree and saw a young, shirtless man tied to a thick tree about a hundred feet away. Another, darker haired man was clutching his wrists. Soon, the chain fell to the ground. They embraced against the tree, Alpha 1 pressing firmly against the other werewolf.

A small part of him felt badly as he raised his crossbow to his eyes. This was the second time he had interrupted them.

* * *

Stiles roared as the spiked arrow passed through the muscle of his shoulder and embedded itself deep in the oak tree behind them. Derek whirled around to see a dark skinned man approaching them through the trees. He had a crossbow drawn and aimed directly at them.

"Who are you?" Derek stood in front of Stiles instinctively, baring his fangs and snarling viciously.

The other man lowered his crossbow a fraction of an inch to look at them above the crosshairs. "I work for the Argents. Do you know who we are?"

Stiles tugged at the arrow lodged in his shoulder. Even with his werewolf strength, it was buried too deeply in the tree to be removed without eviscerating his flesh. "We're werewolves, you jackass," he heard Derek seethe. "Of course we know who you are."

"They want you -"

"Dead, we know." Stiles gritted his teeth and flashed his yellow eyes at the hunter. "But even I can see you're outnumbered right now, and I've been a werewolf for less than a week. That crossbow is the only thing keeping us from chasing you off."

"The thing keeping you from killing me is the arrow in your arm," the hunter growled. "And the thing keeping him from killing me," he nodded his head at Derek, "is his instinct to protect you.

"Anyway," he continued, "they don't want you dead. They want you to come back to Virginia, alive." Derek's growling cut off abruptly at the hunter's words. He and Stiles shared a surprised, suspicious glare.

"I'm pretty sure," Stiles bit out angrily, "shooting someone in the middle of the day, in a public place, constitutes a real burning desire to kill the target."

"Things change." The hunter brought the crosshairs back to his eyes and stepped forward. Stiles started growling again, whines of pain interspersed between each rumbling sound. "And that was an accident. He was my original target." He gestured to Derek roughly with his crossbow.

"You're the one who shot me?" Stiles' eyes widened incredulously. The rumbling in his chest grew louder. The wolf inside him suddenly had no qualms about ripping through its own arm to destroy the one who had nearly murdered it.

"It was an accident," the hunter said again. "If you both come with me now, I promise neither of you will be harmed. We can even stop for doughnuts on the way."

Derek stepped forward, shrugging off Stiles' hand, and stood against the very tip of the loaded crossbow bolt. "I don't trust hunters," he growled dangerously. "Especially the ones who have no problem taking an innocent human life. The Argents used to follow the code."

"He isn't so innocent now." The hunter didn't back away, but stared directly into Derek's eyes.

"Yeah, because of you!"

"Derek," Stiles said behind him. He was trying desperately to control the wolf inside himself, and starting to lose against the vengeful animal. Derek glanced backwards for just an instant and looked into his yellow eyes. In that moment the hunter took his chance. He hit Derek with the end of his crossbow, knocking him off his feet and making him spit blood onto the ground.

Derek wobbled up, his entire chest reverberating with the growls coming out of him. Stiles could almost see the fabric of his t-shirt vibrating over his skin. "He wasn't really innocent then, either!" The hunter shouted at him as he stood. "You take a werewolf for a mate, you're gonna get hurt. It's a simple fact of life. You're the one who killed him and turned him into an animal, not me."

With a cry of pain and a spurt of hot blood, Stiles wrenched himself off the arrow attaching him to the tree. He could feel his face rippling into a new shape. The wolf reveled in his total loss of control.

Suddenly, there was a hand on his chest pushing him violently backwards. Stiles landed with a painful thud, the sting against his back clearing his head. He watched on in horror as a change came over Derek: Derek, so in control during the full moon, had fallen to his hands and knees. Bones creaked and elongated. He changed rapidly into a great, black wolf. The hunter fired an arrow at him, but Derek dodged it with lightning speed. He launched himself at the hunter and tore the crossbow from his hands, snapping the firing mechanism with one mighty bite.

"Derek, stop it!" Stiles stumbled to his feet, the human part of himself completely in control once more. He jumped into the fray and attempted to rip Derek off the hunter. He wrapped his hands through Derek's thick, dark fur and pulled him roughly away. Derek landed with a whimper against a tree, which shook with the force. Pine needles rained down on him.

The hunter staggered to his feet. He dropped his broken crossbow to the ground and clutched at his neck, which was bleeding copiously over his hands. Derek had become a man again and was standing next to Stiles. His lip was curled up in a snarl, and only Stiles' arm wrapped around his bare chest prevented him from any further attacks.

"This is why I hunt you!" The hunter screamed. He stared at his own blood covered hands in horror. Then he sunk to the ground, shaking in shock. The pine needles underneath him were starting to darken as blood seeped onto them.

"Why do the Argents want us alive?" Derek asked murderously.

"I don't know," the hunter groaned. He kept his hands on his neck, trying desperately to staunch the bleeding there.. "Chris – Chris Argent told me to capture you both and bring you home. I – I don't know anything else. Please," he begged in the end, "kill me. I can't be a wolf."

He began to seize and moan in pain. Stiles sighed and pulled Derek tighter, bumping the older man's back against his chest.

"Do it, Derek," he whispered into his hot skin. He couldn't look at the hunter.

Derek shook his head slightly, but Stiles growled at him. "You did that." He nodded at the dying hunter. "Put him out of his misery."

They didn't have to do anything, in the end. The hunter bled out over the leaves while they stood there and watched.

Stiles turned from Derek and vomited without preamble against the tree. Derek rubbed his back in small, tight circles, still staring at the hunter on the ground. "I wasn't really expecting that," Stiles gasped. He groaned and retched again. The smell of sickness made Derek's nose wrinkle in distaste, but he never stopped touching Stiles.

"I'm sorry." Derek's voice was quiet. "He made me angry."

"As attractive as your ability to Hulk out usually is," Stiles said drily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "that was really scary."

Derek seemed to deflate. His shoulders stooped and when he turned to help Stiles back up, his eyes were sadder than ever.

"Come on, Derek." Stiles, who had grown so adept at figuring out Derek's every mood, lifted the other man's chin with his knuckles. "We have to get out of here."

Derek only nodded. He allowed himself to be led back into the cabin; Stiles laced their fingers together and tugged him along. Stiles collected their rumpled, dirty clothing from the forest floor. They walked through the cabin into the barely used bedroom. Derek kept his hand on Stiles while the other looked for new clothing.

They began retrieving and repacking their belongings, which had traveled surreptitiously around the cabin. Stiles took a minute to brush the foul taste out of his mouth. Once they found everything they locked up the cabin. Stiles stood in the doorway, tapping his feet anxiously while Derek ran off into the woods. He came back after only a few minutes, a cell phone clutched in his hand. "Always good to keep an eye on the enemy," he murmured in response to Stiles' questioning look.

They found the hunter's car in a camp parking lot nearby. Derek jimmied the lock open and slid into the driver's seat. After a moment's hesitation, Stiles sunk into the passenger seat.

"I'm not really afraid of you," Stiles muttered. He extended his hand warily and settled it over Derek's knee. "Just so you know." The drive remained uncomfortable for the next half hour. They reached the highway before Derek covered Stiles' hand with his own.

"And," Stiles added, flexing his hand so their fingers were interwoven, "I appreciate what you did for me back there."

"What did I do?" Derek's voice was soft and gruff. He kept his eyes locked on the road.

"You defended me," Stiles shrugged. "You lost control so that I wouldn't."

"I'm your alpha. That's what I do."

Stiles gave him a dirty look. He brought Derek's hand to his lips and kissed the delicate skin there. "No," he corrected, "you hate yourself enough to be a monster for me. That's... more than I could have ever asked from you."

Derek gave his hand the gentlest of squeezes. "I will never, ever let you be what I was." Stiles turned his head and found Derek's eyes gazing into his with a fierce intensity. "I remember the most awful things in my dreams, Stiles, about losing control and loving it. If I can give you anything, I will make sure you are never like that. Ever."

Stiles, for the first time, rolled his eyes at Derek. "You know," he said wryly, "you can just tell me you love me. It's shorter."

"I'll remember that," Derek deadpanned. Stiles stared at him for a solid thirty seconds before bursting out in a short, barking laugh.

The sun was well and truly risen by the time Derek started smiling again.


	6. The Plan

**AN: **I do not own Teen Wolf or the Bourne movies. **Warning!** This chapter contains somewhat violent anal sex with dubious consent.

* * *

"Should I even bother asking why we're breaking into a school?"

Derek glanced over his shoulder at Stiles and raised his eyebrow. "No."

Even though the night air was warm and humid, they were wearing dark clothing – blue jeans, dark blue long sleeved shirts, and black running gloves – that covered almost every inch of their bodies. Stiles flexed his fingers uncomfortably under his gloves and looked around. The high school was small, somewhat quaint, and all the doors were chained shut for spring break. It was two stories tall and surrounded by a thick forest on a few sides and fertile fields on the others.

Derek wrapped his hands around the thick chain bolting the doors shut. With a powerful jerk, he ripped the lock off. The links fell to the ground like water, slithering into a coil on the concrete. "We're preparing for the Argents; that's all you really need to know," he reminded Stiles shortly. "Where's the bag from the car?"

Stiles lifted the backpack, raising his own eyebrow in a picture of sarcastic acquiescence. Derek hadn't shown him what was inside, only told him to stay in the hotel room all day while he went out for supplies. He'd enjoyed the quiet day, flicking through Psych reruns on TV and taking an obscenely long shower, but when Derek had come back with the backpack and told him they had an errand to run at midnight that night, his curiosity and annoyance at being left out had grown simultaneously.

They'd driven for hours in silence to Virginia. Derek hadn't wanted to talk and only grudgingly handed over the keys so Stiles could drive from Pennsylvania to Richmond. He'd laughed, cajoled, tried crosswords and had asked more werewolf 101 questions, but Derek had remained stoic. Stiles was more angry than worried. He wasn't sure why Derek was trying to distance himself; the man could whisper 'I love you' in the haze of the early morning, and didn't back away from charging werewolves or gunfire, so he didn't think it was fear. In any event, Stiles was frustrated and confused, an uncomfortable and unusual feeling for him.

They entered the school, their shoes squeaking quietly on the newly waxed floor. Stiles looked around at the lockers and doors. A feeling of apprehensive deja vu washed over him. "Man, I hated high school," he whispered nervously. "I was a geek in the greatest sense of the word."

"I never finished," Derek murmured. They paused at a hallway intersection and Derek looked around, his eyebrows bridged in concentration.

"You never graduated?" Stiles bumped his shoulder against Derek's. He kept his voice light, aware that all subjects pre Hale fire were usually off limits in Derek's book. Whenever Stiles tried to bring them up, Derek's mouth would thin into a white line and he'd refuse to answer, preferring to cling tighter and bury his face into Stiles' sides.

"I found a GED certificate in a file with my name on it," Derek answered to Stiles' surprise, "when I was in the Army. I never finished. They finished it for me." He grunted and started down the hallway on the left, leaving a bewildered Stiles a few steps behind.

They reached a set of wide, red doors. Derek pushed them in and revealed a large workshop. There were metal desks in the center, and industrial tools lined the sides. Stiles felt his mouth drop. "Dude, I was fucking terrible at wood shop in school," he groaned.

Derek only grabbed the backpack from his arms with a snort. He opened the bag and dumped the contents on the nearest metal table. An assortment of unloaded handguns and leaden ammunition fell out, among other odds and ends. Stiles flailed at the sight of the guns, twenty years of gun safety indoctrination forcing him to cover his head. When he realized the guns weren't loaded he stood with a relieved sigh and smacked Derek's shoulder in irritation.

"We're... hand loading?" Stiles looked from Derek to the arsenal on the table.

Derek picked up a drill bit and examined it carefully. "We're making hollow points."

"Oh. Cool." Stiles accepted the drill bit from Derek while the other man loaded a bullet into a set of clamps drilled into the table. He watched appreciatively, the way a person watches another demonstrating their skill, as Derek loaded the drill bit into a power drill, checking the depth of the bullet against the length of the bit. As he started slowly drilling into the lead, little slivers of lead began curling onto the table. Derek gave Stiles a pointed look and he began collecting the scraps.

"You've done this before, haven't you?" Stiles' tone contained notes of sarcasm and affection as he watched Derek's utterly concentrated face. "Seriously, have you broken in here before?"

"Why do you think they started putting chains on the doors?" Derek's eyes never left the slowly revolving drill.

Stiles snorted and rested his hand on Derek's back. Even through the layers of clothing, he could feel the heat radiating off of him. Derek let Stiles take over after a while, cradling his hands and guiding the drill for his first bullet. Derek's breath was warm against his ear.

"We're busy, Stiles," Derek whispered. He pulled away reluctantly, his fingertips trailing temptingly against Stiles' skin.

Stiles frowned. "Aren't we always?"

"Yes, but especially now. Can you finish these?" Derek withdrew a cell phone from his pocket. Stiles recognized it as the one he'd stolen from the dead hunter in Vermont. "I have to make a phone call."

Stiles grabbed the drill again. He called after Derek's retreating back, "You realize it's after midnight, right?" He only got a grunt in response.

It took a half hour to finish drilling every bullet. Stiles' hands were perfectly steady as he drilled. He felt a pang of vague sadness watching his own hands; once he'd thought about becoming a surgeon, with his steady, focused hands, but now this was his life – drilling bullets in a darkened high school wood shop.

The vague sadness dissipated. He didn't regret anything, but Kierkegaard said it best: "The most painful state of being is remembering the future."

Derek returned just as he was finishing clearing up the lead scraps and putting everything carefully back into the backpack. "We have to meet someone in twenty minutes," he said. "How do they look?"

Stiles answered by tossing a prepared bullet in his direction. Derek caught it one handed and examined it. The hole was perfectly centered and fairly deep. "They'll give a good spin to the rounds," Stiles shrugged. "Or are we going to load them with something?"

"That's why we're meeting someone. Need a hand with some stuff." Derek pocketed the round and made to pick up the backpack. Stiles moved in front of him and wrapped his arms around Derek's neck. Derek stiffened slightly but relaxed as Stiles rubbed his cheek against the dark stubble peppering Derek's face and neck.

Stiles tightened his grip on Derek's shirt and bumped them into the table. He slotted his legs between Derek's and was pleased to feel arousal there. "Are we still busy?" He mouthed gently against Derek's jawline.

Derek had his hands fisted in the fabric around Stiles' waist. His knuckles were white, and he seemed torn between wanting to run away and being completely unable to. "We – yes, we're busy, Stiles, stop it -" But he was cut off as Stiles bit down on his neck. Little pinpricks from the fangs in Stiles' mouth made him see stars. The hardness in his dark blue jeans grew more and more uncomfortable.

"You left me alone all day, Derek," Stiles growled. He forced Derek's legs apart and pushed his knee against Derek's erection. "And you've been ignoring me, you haven't said two words to me before tonight -"

"The Argents are after us, Stiles!" Derek broke away and breathed out heavily through his nose. He still kept his hands twisted into Stiles' shirt. "I'm trying to protect you."

Stiles bit viciously into Derek's neck, bruising the delicate skin and eliciting a high pitched whine from the older man. "That's not going to fly, Derek," he said angrily. "What are you really thinking?"

He was spun around suddenly and lifted onto the table. Stiles squealed as Derek held him up and ripped his shirt at the hem. Derek attacked his mouth, nipping at his bottom lip, and ripped Stiles' layered shirts off in one fluid movement. The tattered remains flew down to the sawdust covered floor. Derek's followed quickly, and they pressed their feverish skin together. Stiles wrapped his legs around Derek's waist and pulled him firmly into the space between his own. "It's so different now that you're a werewolf too," Derek gasped into his mouth as Stiles scraped his nails down his back. "I've been – been trying to control myself, I want you so bad -"

"That's definitely not what I want," Stiles growled. He fumbled with the button on Derek's jeans and eventually got his hand around the straining erection hidden underneath. "I want you to let loose -"

Derek groaned and thrust into Stiles' hand. His pants fell to the floor and growled at Stiles' laugh. "It's dangerous," Derek moaned softly as Stiles took him more firmly in hand and tugged relentlessly. "You still a-aren't fully in-in control -"

"Good." Stiles bit down on Derek's neck again and was proud to feel thick, hot spurts of Derek's come cover his wrist. Derek breathed out hard like a runner after a marathon and rested his forehead against the ball of Stiles' shoulder.

"What the hell was that?" Derek asked in a whisper. He tried to pull away but Stiles' grip was still firm on him.

"Angry sex is the best sex." Stiles grinned tightly.

"That wasn't sex, that was you being an asshole." Derek sighed again and rubbed his face. "We need to leave -"

Stiles rolled his eyes. He wiped his hand off on Derek's stomach and pushed him away. Derek stumbled back into another table, but Stiles, who'd hopped down gracefully, caught him around the waist. He encircled his arms around Derek and bent him at the waist. Derek grumbled but pressed backward into Stiles' pelvis. His cock was half hard again between his legs and Stiles gripped him firmly while shucking away his own jeans.

"I'm pretty fucking furious with you right now, and I don't want to leave yet." Stiles wrapped his hand around Derek's neck and pushed him horizontally onto the table. Derek squirmed underneath him, his fingers gripping the edge of the table so hard they were leaving dents. Stiles grinned, enjoying the view, and ran his own fingers firmly between Derek's cheeks. Derek growled loudly as Stiles slowly pressed a finger inside him to the knuckle.

The new wolf parts of him were pleased at Derek's submission. A hum of anger and frustration burned underneath his skin, and he felt his eyes go yellow. He went slowly, keeping Derek still with a clawed hand on the back of his neck. He spit onto his other hand and worked another finger into Derek, spreading them apart and loving the warm tightness that surrounded them. The older man whined and pushed back onto his hand, bumping against Stiles' wrist.

Stiles nearly cried out as he finally pressed the head of his cock against Derek's opening. Derek turned his head, as much as he could under Stiles' powerful grip, and Stiles was thrilled to see his pupils were dilated and surrounded by bright red. He snarled and bucked backward against Stiles' cock. Stiles pushed in further, sheathing himself fully inside Derek.

As he leaned over Derek's back, Stiles pressed a soft kiss onto the swirling tattoo between his shoulder blades. He murmured, "I love you, Derek. I really, really do."

"Stiles -"

But Stiles could feel himself losing his control. The animal inside him felt abandoned and hurt. He slammed into Derek and felt the other man jump under his hands. He forced Derek's head harder against the table. "You said I was like a mate to you!" He punctuated each word with a thrust into him. "When the hell are you going to start trusting me? I've trusted you with everything!"

Derek didn't answer, but his hands clenched tighter on the table. Stiles came after only a minute of dominant thrusting, and finally collapsed onto Derek's back.

Stiles felt guilt creep into him as he pulled out of Derek and hurriedly pulled up on his pants. He cringed at the sight of the bruises on Derek's neck and felt heat flush up his neck. "I didn't hurt you, did I? I didn't mean to."

"You didn't. I'm fine." Derek took a moment to finally stand, but he didn't immediately put on his clothes. He cocked his head at Stiles, a closed expression on his face. "Do you think I don't trust you?"

"I was just... angry," Stiles mumbled. "I don't want to be left out, or alone."

Derek shook his head. He pulled on his own clothes, wincing as he tightened his belt again. "Just because I don't tell you every single thought in my head doesn't mean you have to top me in a high school work shop to prove you're worth something to me."

"That's -"

"Can you smell yourself right now?" Derek looked at him hard.

Stiles crinkled his nose. He realized there was a disgusting odor like someone had left a pizza in an oven for an hour; it was greasy, burned, and sour. "What is that?"

Derek tugged his shirt back over his head. "It's you. That's what you smell like when you're angry and losing control."

"Dude, that's disgusting."

"I hate when you smell that way," Derek said under his breath. He picked up Stiles' torn shirt from the floor and handed it to him. "You smell like candy canes when you're happy. I like that better."

"I don't even like candy canes," Stiles replied softly. Derek snorted and wrapped his arms around Stiles' waist. He huffed into Stiles' ear, searching for the right words to say.

After a few minutes, he said, "I'm sorry I was pulling away from you. I didn't know what else to do."

"I told you yesterday, dude. It's way easier to just tell me you love me. Saves time."

Derek kissed his cheek tenderly. "Okay. I'll remember that."

* * *

Jackson was not what he expected, but then again, Stiles wasn't sure what he'd expected when Derek had told him they had to meet a teenager at an occult shop close to one in the morning. The kid was tall and muscular, and gave Stiles a retrospective complex the moment he laid eyes on him.

"Just because I told you once you could call me whenever you needed help doesn't mean you can call me at one in the goddamn morning! And be a half hour late!" The teenager scowled at them and threw an especially dirty look Stiles' way. "If my parents catch me out past curfew again -"

"What, they're going to lock you in your bedroom with your Xbox and flat screen TV? Oh my," Derek responded drily, "what a tragedy. What kind did you bring?"

"Alaskan wolfsbane." Jackson withdrew a bag full of dried herbs from the inside of his leather jacket, and Stiles was immediately floored by a powerful scent. It pervaded his nostrils and ensnared his brain, making him release an involuntary growl. Derek wrapped his arm around Stiles' waist and pulled him away from Jackson.

Jackson's face had turned green with fear. "I am not gonna do this if he's gonna eat me, dude!" He took a step back and bumped into the building wall.

"No one's eating anybody." Derek rolled his eyes and motioned for the closed shop, still keeping a firm arm on Stiles. "Let's go inside."

The occult shop was small and dusty. Stiles went in last and followed the others into a back room where more dried herbs hung from the ceiling. As he walked, he gazed around at the shelves of books and collections of crystals and wind chimes. He was reminded of the magic shop from Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

He took a deep breath and shook his head to clear his thoughts. Even though Jackson had put the dried herbs back into his zippered jacket, the scent still lingered. It made him want to break things, howl, and run wildly through the woods, and at the same time burned into his lungs and throat.

Derek caught Stiles around the arm when he stumbled on a stack of books on witchcraft. He turned to Jackson, releasing Stiles momentarily, and handed him the backpack full of newly-made hollow point bullets. "I need these filled. Did you bring the other stuff?"

Jackson muttered something angrily under his breath and opened his jacket pocket. Stiles was nearly overwhelmed again by the smell of the wolfsbane as Jackson pulled out another, smaller bag and set it on the table. He reeled backward and felt his head hit the brick wall. Little bits of dust fluttered to the ground. Derek jerked his face by the chin and forced him to look into his eyes. "Stiles, I need you to focus right now," he grumbled softly.

"Why – d-don't you feel that?" Stiles blinked rapidly, Derek's face huge in front of him.

"I feel it, just as much as you do," Derek murmured. "That's why Jackson is helping." He leaned forward and rested his forehead against Stiles'. Their breath intermingled until Jackson brashly interrupted them.

"Guys, I'm not interested in watching you two. Did you remember my money?"

Derek huffed and threw a few folded up bills Jackson's way. "Fill a third of them with the wolfsbane, and the rest with the hemlock. We'll be back in an hour or two."

Jackson called after them, "Be back here before four or I swear to God, I'm going to fill them all with the hemlock!"

Derek dragged Stiles out of the shop. He didn't let go of Stiles until they were locked back in their car. They both released long, shuddering breaths.

"I feel it too, Stiles," Derek reassured him as they started driving back down the dark, windy lane. "You'll get more control soon. You will."

"Who is this Jackson kid?" As his head started clearing, Stiles wanted to change the subject.

"His mother is a doctor," Derek explained. A bright neon Denny's sign gleamed ahead of them on the road. "Well, a holistic practitioner or something like that. I met him a few years ago; he was in trouble and I helped him."

"What happened?"

"He was in a market where I was shopping," Derek replied while they waited for a light to change, "and it was being robbed. I protected him. We got to talking. Now he makes my bullets since he can get his hands on a lot of rare flowers and herbs."

"Because you can't touch the wolfsbane." Stiles nodded his head in understanding.

"Exactly." Derek killed the engine in front of the diner and leaned back into his seat with a sigh. "The hemlock is for the hunters."

"Why don't you use cyanide or something?" Stiles opened the door and stepped out into the parking lot, awash with yellow light.

"I prefer the classics," Derek replied. "Besides, I need stuff Jackson can get his hands on."

* * *

Six plates of pancakes and five cups of coffee were consumed before they made their way back to the occult shop. Jackson was locking the door just as they pulled up in front of the store.

"You're lucky I passed metal shop last semester and can get a hold on the soldering gun from school," Jackson snarked as he handed Derek the backpack. Stiles appreciated the kid's work: he could only just detect a hint of dried herbs from the backpack, and none of the scents made him want to rip his own eyeballs out. "Do you want the rest of the hemlock?"

Derek shrugged and stretched out his hand. He pocketed the bag and said, "Thanks again, Jackson."

Jackson shrugged, a suddenly serious expression crossing his face. "What else could I do for my favorite werewolf?"

Stiles gaped when Derek brought Jackson in for a tight, one armed hug. "Take care of yourself," Stiles heard him whisper. Slinging the backpack over his shoulder, Derek turned back to the car and left Stiles and Jackson staring at each other.

"Are you going to take care of him now?" Jackson didn't look at Stiles as he asked the question.

"I've been doing it for a while," Stiles said quietly. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

"I've been the Q to his Bond for a while now. I've been making his shit for five years. You think you're up for it, taking care of him?"

Stiles stared hard at the younger man. "I've been up for it since I saved his life a few months ago. Why do you help him?"

"Cause he's a good guy, even if he can't always see it himself. I might be eligible for douchebag of the year sometimes, but even I don't hate myself as much as he does." Jackson shook his head and started to walk towards a bicycle leaning in an alleyway. "I'm glad he has someone now who can show him he's not a total loss."

* * *

They weren't surprised when they got to Richmond and couldn't find the Argents listed in the phone book. Stiles even went to the city library to Google every version of "Argent werewolf hunter" he could semantically think of. Stiles had the idea of splitting up: he would find local occult shops, see if anyone knew about the Argents, and Derek would find weaponry shops and see if anyone was moving more than the usual amount of bows, arrows, and ammunition. He broached the idea to Derek, who looked like he swallowed a lemon at the thought.

"I don't want to split up," Derek said quietly. He took Stiles' hand in his own and Stiles smiled. Since their fight the night before, Derek had been quietly trying to apologize in his own way. He'd touch Stiles however he could, and when they'd fallen asleep in the early hours of the morning in the backseat of their stolen car, he'd cradled Stiles to his chest with a crushing grip.

"I love you too, big guy," Stiles grinned.

In the end Stiles won. Derek drove off to find the nearest gun shop, and Stiles shoved his hands deep in his pockets and entered a little place down a back alleyway. It was similar to the place they'd met Jackson at, but bigger. As he wiped his feet conscientiously on the mat inside, the hawk-like older woman behind the counter rushed at him. She was short and thin, with bushy brown hair flying everywhere.

"What are you doing here?" She held his arm in a vicelike grip.

"Whoa," he pulled back and raised his hands in surrender. "What's the big deal?"

"Your kind is in danger here," she hissed in his ear. Disregarding the other customers, who were watching in bewilderment, she dragged him into a back room behind the bookshelves. There were wind chimes in boxes and books on every subject, from mythology to astral projection. The woman whirled around to face him, crossing her arms tightly in front of her. She said bluntly, "There's a big family of hunters around here. You and your pack should leave."

Stiles crossed his arms, mirroring her, and frowned. "How do you know what I am?"

The woman shook her head, grey brown hair flying and framing her face. "Boy," she grimaced, "I know a lot about a lot of things, and I definitely know a lot about werewolves. The Argents live just outside of the city – you know who they are? They skin your kind for fun!"

"I know who they are," Stiles grumbled. "I'm looking for them. Do you know where I can find them?"

The shop owner stared at him, her mouth open so wide Stiles thought absurdly that flies might land inside. "Are you fixin' to get yourself killed?"

"No," Stiles countered somewhat petulantly. "Can you help me or not?"

"I don't want your death on my conscious. You don't know what you're dealing with," she said, jabbing her pointy finger into his chest.

Stiles released an involuntary growl. "I know plenty. Tell me."

She stared at him, her finger still resting on his chest. The air in the back room seemed colder and heavier to Stiles, and he growled again. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as a strange breeze flew through the room. "Boy, I am telling you, they are not to be trifled with."

"Neither am I," Stiles snapped back. His eyes glowed in the rapidly darkening room. "I'm not afraid of you, and I'm not afraid of them. Where are they?" His last words came out slightly strangled as his fangs descended over his lower lip.

All of a sudden, the room brightened and the wind died away. The woman pulled away, a thin lipped smile on her face. "He must be some boy," she said quietly, "for you to go after the Argents for him." She didn't wait for Stiles to respond, only turned around and busied herself looking for a piece of scrap paper and a pen. She hurriedly wrote an address and a few directions on a yellow notepad, ripped the page off, and handed it to him. Stiles was mystified at her sudden willingness to help, but as he took the paper from her, he found he couldn't say anything, only nod his thanks. He flew out of the shop, ignoring everyone else, and pulled out his new burner cell phone.

"Derek, come get me. I have an address."

* * *

Derek and Stiles parked about two miles down the road from the address the occultist had given them. It was a gorgeous day – clear blue skies, bright green fields on every side, and a light breeze keeping the humidity away – but they exited the car with grim expressions on their faces. They each had a few pistols loaded with both hemlock and wolfsbane bullets.

"Do you have a plan, or are we just going to bust in there and hope for the best?" Stiles unclipped the button on top of the holster and thumbed the grip of the gun.

"If they wanted us alive in Vermont," Derek grunted, "they want us alive now."

Stiles swallowed nervously. "Even though their hunter is dead?"

Derek looked at him underneath his shadowy eyebrows. "You're gonna be fine, Stiles."

"Are we going in like wolves?"

"That's just going to attract too much attention," Derek said. He checked his clip one more time and started off up the road, looking back to Stiles to see if he was following. "Come on, let's go meet the Argents."

They smelled the hunters as they walked. They seemed to be interspersed every hundred yards around the Argent's home. They held crossbows, shotguns, hand guns; to someone walking through the woods, they looked like an anarchist separatist group. But they made no moves as the werewolves walked past the perimeter towards the palatial white house.

Christopher Argent was waiting for them. He was sitting on the wraparound porch, a shotgun in his lap and a glass of lemonade sitting on the side table next to his chair. Stiles thought he looked like the picture of Virginian nobility.

"Mr. Stilinski. Mr. Hale." The hunter acknowledged them both with a nod. Stiles began stepping up onto the porch, but Derek yanked him back. He was surprised when he looked back and saw Derek breathing hard through his nose, reining in the claws under his fingernails.

Chris Argent examined his own hands unconcernedly. "If you can't control your animal, Stiles, you can't come inside. I intend to keep this meeting civil, short, and to the point. Back off."

Derek had his handgun aimed at Chris's head before Stiles could even speak. "Back off? Gotta say, I was expecting more from the big, bad, veteran werewolf hunter."

"How about," Chris sneered, raising his own gun, "the shells in this shotgun are stuffed with silver birdshot and so much wolfsbane you both will be dead within the day if I decide to fire?"

"That was pretty good," Stiles whispered into Derek's ear. He gripped Derek's shoulder tightly and made him lower his weapon. "Come on, let's go inside."

Derek took a few more deep breaths, calming himself, before holstering his weapon one more time. Chris nodded again and stood. He stood back and opened the door to the house. Stiles followed Derek inside, and they all walked into the kitchen in the back of the house. An attractive, yet somewhat cold woman was waiting for them there. She had a dagger in one hand and a pitcher of fresh lemonade in the other.

"Let's get down to business, then." Chris rubbed his hands together as the awkward tension in the room began to get out of control. "We have information for you, and you have information for us. We work together, maybe we all come out a little cleaner in the end."

Stiles took over the conversation before Derek could say anything. He was more than a little worried about the older man's control facing the family that had caused him a lot of pain. "What do you want to know?"

"We want to know about our daughter, Stiles." The woman spoke directly to him. She set her dagger on the counter but didn't release her grip from the handle. "You know her, or, at least, we think you do."

"I don't know anyone with the last name Argent," Stiles said slowly, his eyebrows raised, "except for you two."

"Her last name was changed," Chris said roughly. He ran his hand through his hair in frustration, clearly out of his element. "Look, let me just – just tell you everything, okay? It will make more sense that way.

"Right after my sister Kate... we moved away from Beacon Hills twelve years ago, with our daughter. We were planning on starting up a new life here, and it worked out well, until about ten years ago. That's when David Cross came after us."

Derek let out a terrifying snarl. He ripped out his gun again and nearly fired off a round of hemlock before Stiles could wrestle the gun out of his hands. "You're working for that fucking lunatic?" Derek raged around Stiles' arms. "I didn't even think it was possible -"

"Come on Derek," Stiles tried to soothe.

Chris had his shotgun up to his eyes and aimed directly for Derek's head. "It's not what you think, Derek!" He shouted. "He threatened us, threatened my daughter – what else could we do?"

"David Cross is a werewolf." There was stunned silence following Victoria Argent's words. Stiles and Derek looked at each other, stunned and disbelieving.

"He wanted us to kill every werewolf within a three hundred mile radius," Chris mumbled into the silence. "It makes it easier for him if he's the only werewolf in the area. In return he wouldn't murder our daughter or our hunters."

"We've met Cross," Stiles said numbly. "He's not a werewolf."

"You know less than you think you do, Mr. Stilinski," Victoria said scathingly.

"Anyway," Chris interrupted, trying to get back on track, "we sent our daughter back to Beacon Hills to live with some old friends who'd gotten out of the business, told her we had died in a car crash. It was for her protection. Her name is Allison."

A light bulb flared in Stiles' mind. He dropped his arms from around Derek and looked each of the Argents in turn. "Allison Grey is your daughter?"

Victoria's face lit up into a blazing, genuine smile. It erased the coldness from her being and made her seem softer, more real. She dropped the dagger and took an eager step towards them. "You do know her, you know where she is?"

"Y-yeah," Stiles said, stunned. "I just talked to her a week ago. She's married to my best friend, Scott McCall."

"She's married?" Chris pulled his wife into his chest as she started crying and dabbing her eyes with a napkin.

Stiles cleared his throat awkwardly. "And... you have a grandchild. His name is Daniel. He's my godson."

"We have a... grandson?"

"Can we skip the tender family moments and get back to the part where you're still working for the man who's orchestrated my life for twelve years?" Derek broke into the conversation with another snarl. Stiles covered his eyes and smacked him in the chest for his insensitivity.

Chris shouldered his gun but kept his wife cradled against him. "Fine, Derek. Here's the deal. We're done with Cross, and we're going to Beacon Hills to find our daughter. We need your help."

"With what?" Derek's eyes started taking on a red tint. "You know your daughter is alive, and you know where she lives. What else do you want with us?"

Victoria straightened and pulled away from her husband. She wiped her eyes and became more composed at once. "You better recognize where you're standing, Derek Hale," she said coldly. "You're somewhere no werewolf has been in six hundred years."

"I'm real proud to be in your kitchen," he replied sarcastically.

Stiles had had about enough. "Okay, alright, enough." He placed himself between Derek and the Argents. "He has a point," he said to the hunters. "You know where Allison is. Is that all you wanted from us?"

"No." Chris reached into a drawer in the counter and pulled up a manila folder. "This is everything we've ever collected on Cross. Where he goes, what he likes to eat for breakfast, everything. We want you two to kill him."

"Anything else?" Derek's tone was, if possible, even more sarcastic.

"Kill Cross, and this will all be over for you, Derek. You think it's a well known fact the CIA is using werewolves for their dirty work? Cross is behind it all. Kill him and your life will be infinitely easier."

"Our life was pretty good until your man shot me in the neck." Stiles snatched the folder from Chris's grasp and handed it over his shoulder to Derek.

"Running for the rest of your life?" Victoria let out a barking laugh. "I don't think so."

Derek was still angry and unconvinced. "So you're going to run away to California and leave us to clean up your mess?"

"It's a collective mess," Chris said. "No one's fault. No one person can fix it. You two together, plus our information – I think you can do it."

Silence extended into the kitchen again.

"We want something else, after we kill Cross." Derek and the Argents both looked at Stiles, surprised.

Victoria raised a beautifully plucked eyebrow. "What do you want?"

"Passports. Fake ones. And plane tickets out of the country. And," Stiles ticked off one last finger, "international minute cards, so we can call home."

"Where do you plan on going?" Chris asked mildly.

Derek answered for him. He put a firm hand on Stiles' shoulder and said, "Goa."

* * *

They only stayed for another half hour, confirming their plans. Stiles told the Argents more about Allison and the godson they'd never met. The Argents assured them the passports and other documents would be in a post office box in Richmond, and that they'd protect the sheriff and Scott while they were in California.

Derek and Stiles walked back to their car. When they sat back in their seats, Derek took Stiles' hands in his and brought them to his lips. "You sure about this?"

"Fuck no," Stiles said. "But I think this was going to happen anyway. We get rid of him, we can go back to our normal lives."

When Derek fell silent, Stiles swore internally and backtracked. "No, Derek, I don't mean like what it was in December, I meant what it was like two weeks ago.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

Derek started the car and pulled slowly back onto the road, headed north back to Washington.


End file.
